


floorboards

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha Noctis Lucis Caelum, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Murder, Bad Touch, Big big big emphasis on the nonbiological, Choking, Drowning, Forbidden Love, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Memory Loss, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Nonbiological Parent/Child Incest, Omega Prompto Argentum, Poor Prompto Argentum, Prompto Whump, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, but not in that way, do with these tags as you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This couldn't be how Noctis lost Prompto forever. He couldn't be too late.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum/Original Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 73
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! welcome to my most self-indulgent fic :) in a minute you will understand why i uploaded this anonymously -
> 
> please mind the tags. please. they are important. they are your friends.
> 
> the epilogue is just a lil bit of back story. an appetizer before the main course, if you will.
> 
> bon apetit!!!!!

Prompto and Noctis had been dating since sophomore year, and they're the best two years of Prompto's life. Their mornings are spent goofing off at school, video games take up the better part of the afternoon, and they use the few hours they have at night exploring new depths of their love. Prompto wouldn't change a single thing about his life.

And then things changed. Not all at once, but... distinctly enough that Prompto can tell exactly when it all went wrong.

His dad had come home with the news of a huge promotion at his investment company. Even his mom flew in from her business trip in Accordo to celebrate.

As he poured out champagne for the family, he told tales of a huge bonus, a new luxury apartment smack dab in the heart of Insomnia... and much, much more travel.

That had made Prompto pretty sad to hear. How he'd come to eat those words.

Unfortunately, his mom had an early flight back to Accordo, and booked a hotel closer to the airport that night.

She quickly kissed Prompto goodbye and slipped 100 gil into his pocket.

"Be happy for your dad _,"_ she gently scolded in a whispering voice. "Not every day a family like us gets lucky like this, huh?"

He didn't know why it hurt in the moment, but it gave him pause. Later, the words would play over in his head: _A family like us._

What was wrong with a family like them?

Prompto _was wrong. It had to have something to do with the barcode on his wrist. He was a defect._

She left, and Prompto just shook it off. This was all normal for him: his parents came home for a night, or maybe even two, and then had to head out. They were married to their work, but it gave Prompto the space (and privacy) he needed to live his life. So it all worked out.

Prompto decided to quickly throw the champagne glasses into the sink and then head to bed when his dad entered the kitchen and playfully blocked the way.

"Come on, Prompto. I've never met a teenager who wanted to stop drinking before he was told."

It made Prompto laugh because, yeah, that was true to some extent; whenever he or Noctis could get their hands on a bottle, they were prone to putting away quite a few mixed drinks.

So he had another glass with his dad. And then another. And another.

But they were having a wonderful time. They were laughing and reminiscing about the few "old times" they could recall from Prompto's childhood. 

Then it got awkward as they reached an end to any memories to speak of.

His dad apologized for not being there as much as he should have. Prompto assured him it was okay.

But his dad was insistent. He wanted to be around Prompto more. Prompto was actually a very cool guy.

And smelled... very good.

Prompto had been so naively confused when his dad made the comment. "I just smell like me, I guess." He'd answered.

Suddenly, his dad had come much too close. The smell of alcohol and _alpha_ filled his nostrils, just as his dad inhaled deeply.

" _Heavenly._ "

His dad then sighed and looked down at his empty glass. "All out," he chuckled, tapping his index finger against the glass.

When he went to the kitchen, Prompto was afraid he was going to pour more.

Instead, his dad loaded the champagne glass into the sink.

"Alright, I'm going to bed. I'm checking out the new place early tomorrow, so... feel free to the rest of the bottle, and try not to be too loud getting ready for school."

Prompto choked out a "Good night, dad," and refrained from telling him that was definitely not in the mood to drink anymore.

While Prompto was at school the next day without any sign of a hangover, his dad sent him 200 gil and a text: "Moved my stuff over to new apartment. Don't worry about yours, keeping the house."

Prompto was elated. The house was even more _his_ than it had ever been, and after last night... well, it was just one less person to worry about coming home.

Except his dad still came back.

He was sitting at the dining table when Prompto came home that day, and the unexpected sight of someone inside his supposedly _empty_ house half scared Prompto to death.

His dad said that the wifi at his apartment wasn't set up yet, so he came home to do some work.

And that was fine, it was normal. Prompto was just going to have to go into his room to wind down after another long day at school.

"Prompto, why don't you sit with me for a while?"

Since then, Prompto had learned not to ever turn his back on his dad.

Weeks passed, and his dad was finally settling into his new apartment. Without his dad there, Prompto could finally get back into the groove of things and actually relax in his own house. Especially since he wasn't starting to feel well lately; a chronic nausea, exhaustion, and cramping plagued him, but his heat was taking its time to come. He attributed it to the stress of being a senior and figuring out college applications.

Except his dad _still_ came back, one cold night in the middle of winter. This time, it was with a bottle of tequila.

Prompto tried every excuse he could think of: lots of homework and studying, a big test coming up, an early start the next day, even lying about going on a late night run to make up for a missed morning.

But his dad still came in. Prompto couldn't refuse.

His dad insisted on toasting for every drink, forcing Prompto to match him.

They'd gotten very drunk, and Prompto smelled very good again.

That night, his dad had taken away the drinks and told Prompto to go to bed.

Prompto did as told, although he was wobbly and giggly going up the steps.

He made it to bed and practically fell into it. He'd planned to send Noctis a quick drunk text before bed when his door opened again.

All Prompto could hear was the sound of the blood pounding in his ears as his dad drunkenly climbed on top of him and took him.

Finished _inside_ him.

That's when things had drastically changed.

Malachi had approached him at school a week or so after that.

Their dads were now working together, and he thought they should be introduced.

Malachi was the definition of alpha: big, strong shoulders, powerful arms, and the respect of everyone around him.

And Prompto was the Lucian prince's prized omega. Malachi had to have him.

He was asking to hang out more often, and Prompto couldn't say no; Malachi made it clear that he would mention it to his father if Prompto wasn't willing to make time for him; it was a "reflection of your family's values." Prompto didn't want to think about what would happen if his dad got fired because of Malachi.

The Pravus family were throwing their annual holiday party, and the Argentums were invited.

The night before, Prompto sees Noctis. They haven't spoken much; Prompto has been avoiding Noctis at school and even over the phone, neglecting to answer his unopened texts. But Noctis doesn't pry.

They go out for pizza.

Noctis makes Prompto feel much better. They go to their favorite spot in Insomnia Park at sunset, and Noctis asks Prompto if everything is okay.

Prompto can't answer. Things are not okay, but... he just doesn't want to talk about it.

When Noctis drops Prompto home that night, his dad is waiting for him at the dining room table.

There's a gun in his hand.

Prompto stays _very still_ with his back against the door.

From that point on, there are two rules set in stone: no boys, and no lying.

The night of the Pravus party, Prompto has to sit in a car with his dad.

Malachi makes advances all night. Prompto _refused_ him all night while trying to avoid going anywhere near his dad. The last thing he needed was his dad seeing him with another boy.

Eventually, he'd had enough. He wasn't enjoying himself and just wanted to curl up in bed.

He was almost at the door when Malachi stepped between them. He reminded Prompto that his dad was still here, and wouldn't be happy to know that Prompto left without him. Besides, he had a surprise.

Prompto didn't care. He was done with all this.

Malachi squeezed his arm and revealed that he didn't like being told no.

They went upstairs. Prompto wasn't drunk when Malachi fucked him.

When it was over, Malachi kissed him. "Love you, baby. I'll pick you up from school tomorrow."

Prompto couldn't let his dad know that any of this had just happened. As far as his dad knew, he and Malachi didn't even know each other.

Malachi _did_ pick him up from around the corner, out of sight of the house. Then they walked in with Malachi's arm around Prompto's shoulder, and Prompto too scared to move -- even when they passed by Noctis.

They have to break up. Prompto couldn't have Noctis poking his nose around and finding out the truth.

So when he gets home that night, he drinks four shots of straight tequila before sending Noctis a text.

_We can't be together anymore. I don't want to see you._

He deletes Noctis' number, and they haven't spoken since then.

For four months, Prompto is caught between his dad and Malachi, and his life is a living hell.


	2. part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright here's the real stuff!!! enjoy :')

Prompto has always been running. He runs even from those he loves most. He has to.

He always says he has to, but he has also always known that a different life, something... not _this,_ wasn't impossible. There are supposed to be ways out of situations like his; and yet, being found out is what he's most afraid of when he goes to school, or anywhere else that requires him to be face-to-face with people for extended periods of time.

Keeping a poker face at all times is pretty difficult when your best friend, your soulmate, and now ex-lover, goes to the same school as you — not to mention that you happen to share a class. And your current boyfriend would throw a fit if you ever even _whispered_ that was a class you wanted to skip, all because he was also enrolled. So he could flaunt you right in front of your ex.

Did he forget to mention that his ex was also the crown prince of the entire fucking kingdom?

And that's just his life at school.

 _If only it were that easy,_ Prompto thinks to himself as he heads into the cafeteria to grab the usual table for Malachi and his crew. He looks longingly over to the food station of the private high school, though his nose tells him what's on today’s menu before anything else: meat pies. He would be lying if he said that he wouldn’t kill for a warm and tasty meal; but unfortunately, a private high school lunch also comes with a matching price tag.

Prompto looks down at his stomach and sighs. _I know, me too. But we managed to get some toast yesterday, so there’s that to look forward to..._

And such a prize came without even having to ask his dad.

Prompto’s body threatens to automatically shut down at the anxiety-inducing thought of _him_ , but Prompto's resolve and better judgement are just in time to force his head to back up to the table and make him settle for dealing with the stress by grinding his teeth tightly together. It doesn't stop his movements becoming slow and mechanical.

_I can’t think about him now. I have to focus on lunch and getting through the rest of the day. One thing at a time._

As soon as Prompto sits down, he reaches in his bag and swiftly checks his reflection in the mirror. None of his foundation or concealer has uncovered the purple and black bruises beneath, and his face doesn’t look too gray from nights spent afraid to sleep and wake up to the weight of his dad's thick hands spreading his thighs; his mask is still on, and that's something to focus on and be optimistic about.

He checks the time from the broken clock on the cafeteria wall and, with a jump, shoves his compact back into the depths of his book bag. Then, almost as if on cue, he can see the school's most popular group of teens enter the room.

All eyes turn to them without meaning to; the distinctive alpha swagger in their walk and the way they hold their shoulders back are dripping with confidence and presence, as if they know their lucrative power demands so much attention. Those who were rich, powerful, or attractive enough to be even within spitting distance practically jump up from their seats at the chance to greet and high five their patron saints. With all those people surrounding them, Prompto couldn't risk a disgusted sneer at the thought of what those ass-kissers did for Malachi's already gigantic ego.

But those spiteful thoughts are gone as Malachi closes in on their usual lunch table. Prompto feels invisible fingers creeping up his right shoulder, toward the nape of his neck, all the way up to his ear, a bone-deep dread expanding like ice wherever they land. They then become the ghost of a whisper: _He's here._

Prompto desperately fights the urge to itch the raw, peeling skin of his neck as he takes in Malachi's figure first from the neck down: dressed from head to toe in a designer shirt, imported jeans, and limited edition sneakers. When Prompto chances a glance just above the alpha's head, he can see that even Malachi's dark auburn hair wasn't washed with shampoo worth any less than a hundred gil.

The pack takes their time getting to the table, but when they finally throw all their stuff down, Malachi coolly and idly slides his arm around Prompto.

It makes his insides want to rot and die, but Prompto pulls on a smile and forces himself to lean into the touch. He can better feel curves of defined, built muscle beneath soft cream Tenebrean cloth, and it only makes his anxiety worse. _Slip up, and he'll be using those against you._

One of Malachi’s cronies suddenly leans forward with an outstretched fist, and Prompto has to stop himself from reflexively cowering away — but like a well-oiled machine, Prompto allows the importance of keeping his undivided attention on Malachi to outweigh his fear of fists flying at him. He can't move fast enough to return the fist bump before it gets awkward and attracts attention, and he somehow does it without cringing at the pressure against his battered knuckles.

Not long after that, as it is usually followed by, Malachi leans in for a kiss.

And Prompto has to kiss back while holding back the bile that quickly builds in the back of his throat.

 _It's okay, this is the safest you can be,_ he tells himself for the millionth time, _forces_ himself to believe. If this is how he survives, then so be it.

Long-awaited relief washes over him when he is finally released from Malachi's lips and can return to being largely ignored by the group until they needed something from him.

Too bad he’s busy doing damage control for the wildfires of anxiety that threatened to scorch and engulf him, when Malachi asks him a question that goes unanswered.

"Prompto! Are you listening to me?" Malachi snaps suddenly, pushing Prompto back and letting his arm fall to his side from around the blonde's shoulders. Prompto reflexively looks down at his hands; he'd learned it was safer not to look Malachi in the eyes when he did something wrong.

Prompto swallows thickly as his heart begins a breakneck pace. "I — Sorry, Mally, I was thinking of, um, the math homework we have to do. I wanna make sure that I don't have to skip Tenebraen to visit Professor Yan before school ends," he lies, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.

Malachi only rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about that, one of the nerds will text us the answers. I wanted you to get me a meat pie."

Oh, that was just the universe being unfair. "Sure thing, yeah. Uh, do you want me to grab your ID out your wallet, or?"

The redhead's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need my ID? Just go get me a meat pie."

Prompto returns a blank stare before what was being asked of him finally makes sense. _Prompto_ has to pay for the twelve gil meat pie and three gil drink. Using the two gil he has to his name.

As well trained Prompto is at hiding his embarrassment, he is powerless to stop the red flush that makes his face uncomfortably hot.

"Oh. Mal-bear, I-I really wish I could, but I... I left my wallet at home, and today was the day that I needed to refill my Lunch Bucks... But tomorrow, I can definitely get you lunch tomorrow!" _He'd fucking better._

Malachi's glare rakes up and down Prompto's frame, making the omega more and more self-conscious of his stomach, terrified that Malachi might notice a slight curve.

"So you don't have enough money?" He asks flatly, clearly unimpressed with Prompto's lame excuse.

Prompto hates the way in which the words are phrased; like he's a disappointment for even daring to exist without the money to afford a fifteen gil lunch. Well, given that Malachi's family could probably buy half of Insomnia in cold, hard cash, it isn't hard to see why.

He is lesser in Malachi's eyes, in everyone's eyes. That's just fine by him; being submissive and obedient is exactly what had kept him alive for this long.

Besides, if there was even the slightest chance that he was carrying a Lucis Caelum within him, despite who its other potential fathers are... He can't give up. Not now, not ever. That's a life he isn't willing to take.

So, _no_ , between trying to keep himself and the baby growing inside him fed with the very few and far between meals and allowances his dad gave him, he decidedly did _not_ have enough money to get Malachi lunch today. He could barely scrounge together four meals a week outside of small snacks that take the edge off his near-starvation — and this week has proven to be one of the more scarce ones. But if Prompto is going to keep himself under the radar, he needs to hide the fact that the rich and powerful Malachi was dating... well, someone who is a lot less so.

Their dads may work together, but that doesn't mean Prompto can just _ask_ his dad for money; that has to be earned in blood and tears.

"I do! Just not today. I'll make it up to you later, I swear," Prompto gingerly places his hand on Malachi's thick arm as an endearment — trying to keep it in place, or at least to know when it was about to swing.

Prompto feels Malachi's icy and intense green eyes burning a hole through his clothes, right into his skin, _branding_ him — and Prompto can only hope against all hope that the terror, the _lie,_ doesn't betray itself on his face.

Malachi scoffs and turns away. "Yeah, sure. Sorry you can't mooch off me like you did with Noctis. Unlike him, I don't have to get lunch for a charity case like you all to feel better about myself," he spits venomously.

Prompto's blood runs cold all too suddenly.

An insult cutting _that deep_ isn’t something Prompto had braced for. Without the mental capacity to keep himself calm in handling an upset Malachi _and_ dealing with the guilt that comes with being reminded of Noctis, Malachi’s words gnash at his weary heart and flood his senses with pain and regret — including his good ones.

Sadness and fear rapidly transform into white hot anger, and Prompto is left stuttering, "I-I'm not— I'm not a—"

"Oh, you're not _what_? New money? You're obviously lying to me — I mean, just look at your lunch!" Malachi jeers, ripping open the aluminum foil holding Prompto's lunch: the toasted first and last slices of a bread loaf.

The eyes of Malachi's friends wander nonchalantly towards the developing argument, and are then quick to follow Malachi's unceremonious presentation of Prompto's "meal." Two of them just couldn't contain their laughter, and it gives the rest of the group permission to chuckle and snort.

Heat spreads to the tip of Prompto’s ears as he is publicly humiliated by Malachi, and his eyes start to prick at the edges. _So much for something to be happy about._ His teary gaze falls to the floor; better to bow his head in shame and keep getting attacked than to speak up and start a fight he can’t finish.

"What, Prompie? Got nothing else to say? Maybe you should remember your wallet next time," his boyfriend finishes. Malachi then picks up a slice of bread, inspects it, and tosses it to the floor like it was nothing.

Prompto watches the bread piece go; a waste of the only food he would see for gods knew how long.

His hunger speaks for him.

"You're such a— a _jerk!_ " Prompto shouts, watching, rather than feeling, his own frail hands ball up into fists. A sudden hush ends all conversation around them.

The lack of noise from the most lively table in the room doesn't go unnoticed; and soon, all surrounding tables were following suit. Within seconds, half the cafeteria is silently anticipating an event which that would have the _entire_ rest of the school talking for weeks, with the other half of the room quickly catching on.

_Of course._

Malachi's dangerously poisonous green eyes hone in on Prompto as if he's been waiting his whole life for a moment like this: an opportunity to get Prompto's back up against the wall.

" _What_ did you just say to me?"

The sharpness of Malachi's tone sets off an earthquake in Prompto’s bones and leaves him trembling. He realizes with an increasing self-consciousness that there are too many people watching him. He can barely even hold eye contact with anyone anymore, and now at least a hundred pairs of eyes are locked on his every move as he desperately tries to get back on Malachi's good side. Anxiety has officially taken control of him, but the very last thing he needs right now is to have a panic attack — or worse, pass out.

"I — I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, Malachi — L-Look, I'll go clean it up, and— a-and— and I'll go see i-if I can still get lunch for y—"

"You know how much that hurts my feelings, Prompto? My own _boyfriend_ calling me a jerk, when I've given you everything: I help you with school, I talk to you, I get you food, I even let you meet my parents! And _I'm_ the jerk?" He sounds hysterical, even actually hurt; but Prompto knows Malachi knows that calculated look in his eye, the slight lilt in his voice which always means that Malachi is devising some sort of punishment. The last time Prompto had seen that look was the first and last time he dared to say something that didn't please Malachi — and there was a reason it had happened only once, a long time ago.

"No, you're not, I-I was being stupid, _please,_ Malachi —"

"And you're embarrassing me in front of all my friends! When I stick up for your loser personality and mopey _fucking FACE!"_ Malachi is leaning taller and taller over Prompto as he speaks, until his roaring in Prompto's face and _angry_ alpha pheromones has reduced the omga to a cowering mess.

 _This is bad._ This is turning into a shit show, and Prompto only has the next few words to try and make everything right again.

_But what does he say?_

"Mal, come on, lay off. He said he was sorry, can't you see he's scared?" The voice of one of Malachi's preferred followers, his left-hand man on the football team, gently offers. However, it’s also clear in his tone that whatever Malachi does, no one is going stop him.

Malachi looks between Prompto, his friend, and back. It’s clear that to keep going is all too tempting, but not without some serious consequences. With all these eyes on him, there is no way the quarterback is easily going to get out of trouble for bullying another student, even if it is his own boyfriend. At least, that’s what Prompto is hoping for.

So of course, Malachi slyly and slowly answers, "So let Prompto say it. You scared?"

Prompto doesn’t meet his eyes, even though he knows Malachi is glaring daggers at him. The answer is _yes,_ _he’s petrified_ , and Prompto knows that's exactly what Malachi wants to hear. But in his heart, that fear isn’t very far from anger; a snowballing of frustration that he could do nothing to show Malachi that he isn’t really afraid of him or anyone else, not anymore... just the consequences.

So Prompto says nothing.

"I said, _are you scared?_ " Malachi seethes, grabbing Prompto's jaw between the pads of his huge fingers and turning his face to Malachi’s. It makes Prompto's irises minuscule with unbridled fear and sends a rush of anxiety spread from his chest all the way to his fingertips, but his gaze stays locked on the ground, his teeth grind together, and his lips are sealed.

But it seems that to the alpha, no answer is just as wrong as saying no.

Malachi scowls as he tightens his grip on Prompto's face and throws him to the floor faster than Prompto can blink, harder than his bruised body can take.

The blonde cries out as his shoulder blade slams against the concrete floor, and gasps of shock all around him mingle with the sensation of a flaring pain. But what his ears quickly become trained on as he groggily rises to his knees is the sound of Malachi's footsteps closing in.

Prompto looks up at him, hoping that the sheer terror and pleading in every line of his face was enough to convince Malachi not to do this. He won’t complain behind closed doors, but this is all too public for it to bode well for either of them.

But as Prompto finally takes in the malicious look in Malachi's face, it's obvious he doesn't care in the slightest. Maybe humiliating and hurting Prompto for everyone to see is what he'd wanted all along, as if wounding words and daggered eyes weren't enough to kill him from the inside out.

Prompto watches Malachi's foot swing backwards, and they both know the target: the one part of himself Prompto bothered protecting anymore. And now, it was once again time to risk it all to ensure the survival of the baby inside him.

When Malachi's foot shoots forward, Prompto pushes himself upright as fast as he can, very narrowly avoiding the sort of kick to the stomach that sent football flying a record fifty-eight yards.

There are only a few seconds left for Prompto to get up and run — but run where? And how would he even start to get through the crowd of people surrounding them?

If flight isn’t an option, then he has to fight.

All while Prompto is weighing his options, his right arm has already hooked itself back and is flying straight at Malachi's knee. When it connects with bone, Malachi lets out a sharp howl that shakes Prompto out of his reverie.

If the time to run for his life wasn't then, it sure was now.

With the few seconds afforded to him by Malachi clutching his knee and screaming like a banshee, Prompto scrambles to his feet and lets the adrenaline work for him to push people out the way and sprint out of the cafeteria.

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" plagues him as he realizes with increasing despair that he might never make it out of the building.

When he was in his prime, Prompto was easily the fastest runner in phys ed — he just always hid it because he hated the gym teacher spotlighting the most athletic students in front of the entire class for no other reason than to take undue credit. Now, having been too... "busy" to go running even half as often as he used to, he doesn't have half as much stamina as he did then.

But that prime state is what he tries to tap into as he takes the stairs three, sometimes four, at a time. After two flights, his lungs are burning.

His goal is climb to the third floor and lock himself in the bathroom stall, figure out how the hell he’s going to get out of school, and then go straight home without anyone seeing him — and hopefully, his dad won’t be home to pick up the phone when the school calls.

Prompto can’t spare the attention span to even wonder about what his dad would do to him if he _did_ find out that Prompto was fighting with someone at school, let alone another boy. He'd be in for another nice surprise when he found out Prompto was fighting with his _boyfriend._

The boyfriend who happened to be his boss' son.

That can’t happen, not if Prompto ever wanted to see daylight or another living soul again.... or _live_.

There were a lot of unspoken rules between him and his dad: if his dad is home, Prompto should stay close by but out of sight, and at beck and call; but if he comes home after 7:30, then dinner and beer should be on the coffee table, and his favorite crime show better be on (and the can goes on the _right_ side, not the left — if Prompto made that mistake again, his dad would do much worse than just hurling the can at his head); do not make a _sound_ before noon on weekends; and a million other mannerisms Prompto learned either through twisted praise or with dark bruises. But above all, there were exactly two rules which had actually been spoken — meaning, they were to be followed at all times, and without question.

No boyfriends, and _no lying._ As far as his dad was concerned, Prompto _belonged_ to him, and him alone; and so, his dad would dictate his entire life. Prompto went to school, came straight home, and waited on his dad hand and foot whenever he felt the need to return and make sure Prompto had enough to eat for the next few days, and the next few days only. In his dad's own words, Prompto "didn't need to eat like when he was a kid anymore."

A boyfriend would distract Prompto from his duties and make his dad green with jealousy, but lying about it would make his dad _angry_.

The two strictest rules were the first and only two Prompto has ever broken.

So Prompto sprints down the hallway of the emptiest floor in the building, increasingly desperate to cover his tracks. Lying about having a boyfriend, no matter how one-sided their relationship, would only work if he didn't get caught.

The bathroom on the third floor is hardly used. Some say it's haunted by a student who was the result of a senior prank gone wrong; others say it’s only for certain... aromatic emergencies. But in reality, it's largely due to the fact that there are hardly any classes offered up on the third floor, and no one was climbing to the top of the building for a bathroom break.

Prompto hopes that it’s enough to make Malachi forget it ever even existed.

His heart is racing as he quickly ducks and barricades himself into the stall farthest from the door, closest to the window. Only when he climbs on top of the toilet seat to hide the view of his shoes from underneath the stall door does Prompto allow himself to catch his breath and think of his next move.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be left alone long enough to walk out the school’s front doors and be on his way home. If he isn’t, he is going to have to jump out the window.

Prompto places a quaking hand on his stomach. If it came down to that... Between the impact of the fall and the _constant_ _stress_ he’s under...

No. So long as he might be carrying a royal baby, _Noct’s baby,_ he has to find another way.

Prompto is trying to think as clearly through his panic as fast as possible when he runs out of time. The door to the bathroom is thrown open and footsteps herald the omega’s worst nightmare:

 _Malachi_.

Prompto presses his back tight against the cool tile of the wall, and decides to look up at the ceiling to keep himself under control. He barely even dares to breathe, but his mind is working overtime in an attempt to stave off a panic attack and beg the gods for mercy at the same time, all while trying to command his muscles to stay still and silent.

When Malachi first steps into the bathroom, he makes no other sudden movements. Instead, he simply chuckles.

”Okay, Prompto. I’ll give you until the count of three to come out. If you do that, maybe I’ll consider not breaking your ribs.”

Prompto tucks his lips in to stop himself from whimpering as the first tears of sheer terror fell down his face.

“One...” The abrupt and deafening bang of the stall two doors down makes Prompto jump and bite down his lip so hard, he draws blood. He can smell Malachi's outrage, and Malachi can smell Prompto's fear; no matter where he ran, Malachi would have followed the scent like a bloodhound.

”Two...” A second stall door is thrown open, and Prompto has only seconds before he's found — so unless he's planning on climbing over his stall door and busting out the window in the next five seconds, he's out of options and out of time.

_This cannot be happening._

The deep-set exhaustion in his bones makes it difficult to push toothpaste out of a tube some mornings, let fight off one of the best up-and-coming QBs in the nation and _win_.

”You know, Prompto, I think some small part of me wanted us to work out.” Malachi confides as he leans from one foot to the other, slowly making his way to the third stall door. “I'd be yours, and you'd be mine. A strong alpha and an obedient omega. But then I thought...

"Why not be the _best_ version of that? An alpha provides for his omega, but only if the omega is willing follow the alpha’s every command. I thought you'd do that for me. We would make _anyone_ jealous. You’d be such a prize.

“But now I see that's not what you want — so that’s not the life you’re getting, not anymore. I mean, you tried to stop me from providing for you in the best way I know how, which is with football. You tried to take out my _knee,_ I mean, who does something like that?

"My entire future flashed before my eyes: and I knew that if that happened, I wouldn't be able to take care of you anymore. But I... _want_ you, Prompto. More than anything, I want you to be my omega. And I always get what I want, don't I?"

With no other warning, Malachi's foot slams into the door, and the lock breaks off cleanly with a loud clink. Its clattering against the floor is muffled by the resounding thud of the heavy stall door hitting the wall.

Malachi is a vision of fury, his hair lit with a dark fire and his eyes blazing with a delighted dementia. His fists are tightly curled and white at the knuckles, but still as huge as mallets.

A smile spreads across his face as he takes a step forward.

Prompto knows he has to move. Every step closer is one less chance for Prompto to get the hell out of there. And if he's already going to suffer at Malachi's hands and possibly lose the only thing giving his life any semblance of meaning, he has to take every opportunity.

The omega barrels forward, giving one last desperate attempt to slide past Malachi through the few inches between his body and the door.

It isn’t a very good plan, but it's the only one Prompto has left.

It fails miserably.

Malachi catches Prompto with ease, and no matter how much Prompto struggles against him, there is no escaping his vice grip. All Prompto can do now is hope to the gods than someone hears him scream, " _NO!”_

The alpha laughs and clamps one hand over Prompto's mouth, squeezing his jaw with almost enough strength to break it. He uses the momentum to send Prompto’s head into the side of the wall.

Prompto‘s senses are swiftly taken from him.

His vision is staticky, like the reel of an old video. His body drops to the floor, too disoriented to even hold itself up. A high-pitched ringing muffles all other sound, the taste of blood is on his tongue, and the only thing Prompto can focus on is the scent of an angry and powerful alpha.

Malachi’s shadow looms over him.

With a significant portion of Prompto's consciousness out of the picture, Malachi leans down and seizes Prompto's wrists behind his back. The blonde writhes and tries to kick him away, but it's no use. Prompto sobs as Malachi fits both slender wrists within one large hand, and the other yanks Prompto’s blonde hair upwards.

Reality comes to a screeching halt when Malachi blows a hot breath against the base of Prompto's neck, right above the unbroken skin of his mark.

Prompto doesn't fight when Malachi presses kisses against the tender area, although the disgust that fills his stomach makes it twist and turn. His skin crawls at the notion that it's _Malachi_ who is gently grazing his teeth against his mark, but it heats up with guilty pleasure that an alpha, _his alpha,_ or the closest thing he'll ever get to one, is showering him with attention where he's most sensitive.

" _Malachi, please,_ " Prompto begs in a whisper, his voice watery with terror and words slurred with pain. Prompto could explain away as much of today to his dad as he'd like; there is simply no way he's going to be able to mask the scent of a bonded omega.

The only thing that can stop Malachi is a silent prayer to the gods that he will have even the smallest inkling of mercy.

Instead, Malachi takes one gnashing bite of Prompto's skin, and then something inside of him implodes and dies.

Prompto shrieks in his anguish, tears finally streaming freely down his face. There are so many _emotions,_ many of which he hasn't ever felt before. He couldn't be bonded to Malachi. He couldn't be damned to be connected to him, body, mind, and soul, for the rest of eternity.

Malachi interrupts Prompto's forlorn cries by leaning into Prompto's ear and darkly whispering, "Take a deep breath."

As his head begins a rapid descent into the toilet bowl, Prompto takes as deep a breath through his tears as humanly possible. And yet, it isn’t enough.

The water is freezing, and the off-white porcelain presses cold and unyielding against his chin and cheekbones. Prompto's nostrils burn with the feeling of water surging through them, and his chest heaves violently with the need to cough and splutter, but with the knowledge that there will be no precious oxygen to make it all better. Malachi jerks Prompto's head back and forth, and the walls of the toilet bowl slam hard against his brow bone, his jaw, his nose — and he can no longer breathe through the pain and let himself just float away, as he does whenever he's being punished.

All too suddenly, heat like magma from the heart of Ravatogh erupts across Prompto's forehead when Malachi shoves his skull inside the bowl as deep and with as much force as humanly possible. Pain splotches the black behind Prompto's vision with red.

Prompto can’t stop screaming, even if it rapidly depletes the precious little oxygen he has left inside him.

 _Please let it be over,_ Prompto begs the gods, even though he knows they aren't listening anymore. His chest is going to explode at any minute.

Either way, it's all going to end; if he's not pulled out within the next ten seconds, Prompto's lungs will start filling up with water.

But when Malachi's hands shift from holding Prompto's wrists to squeezing him tight at the neck, Prompto remembers:

_He doesn't care._

_I’m sorry,_ Prompto wants to say to the life within him that has struggled for so long to grow with the few nutrients Prompto could offer. _I tried my best, but I couldn’t protect you, after all._

But maybe this _is_ the best way. What could Prompto provide for a baby but an unstable life of hunger and fear? At best, they would live in hiding, protecting the child’s true identity as the bastard heir to all of Lucis. At worst... they’d still both be dead at the hands of either Malachi or his dad, or even the Lucian government.

The chance that Prompto could have ever had this child was always slim to none. There were just too many things that Prompto couldn't change, too many daemons who were after them both.

If this is the end, Prompto can accept that.

But it’s not.

Malachi’s knee sends a bolt of lightning up Prompto’s back where it rams directly between Prompto’s marred rear with a deathly precision and 300-lbs of pure muscle behind it. The impact jolts Prompto’s body forward, his belly slamming against the toilet bowl like a water balloon just before it bursts.

Electricity courses through each blood vessel lining his spinal cord, paralyzing his muscles and any will he has left to hold his breath.

Instead, he gasps, and icy water floods his throat.

His lungs have never been this cold. They keep sucking in water, believing that somehow, someway, oxygen will replace it; that things will be okay.

Instead, Prompto closes his eyes and keeps breathing.

Noctis has come to appreciate the quiet. These days, it's all he really has.

He's gotten used to picking away the broccoli from the chicken and ramen lunch that Ignis has prepared for him, music playing from his headphones while his math homework remains largely neglected on the desk of the third floor classroom he's hidden in. He's come to appreciate the room as his haven from the everyday stressors of high school; in his case, being the prince of Lucis while attending classes with overeager rich kids looking to use him as a reference on a resume.

Things are certainly... different since he and Prompto broke up.

The first week was rough. He hadn’t wanted to see anyone or do anything; it was like as soon as he had the thought to get out of bed and at least shower or even _eat something,_ he suddenly felt very tired, no matter how much he slept it off. There was simply nothing that motivated him enough to leave the confines of his weighted blanket, soft sheets, and self-loathing.

The day that Noctis left his breakfast, lunch, and dinner outside his door from the lack of energy or will to get them, Ignis knocked softly on his door and came in. He slowly made his way to the foot of Noctis’ bed and woke up the sleeping prince.

Ignis was worried about him; not disappointed in his behavior, not upset with him at the paperwork that had probably taken over his living room by now, but... _worried_.

And gods, did that make Noctis feel guilty. It seemed that all he was good at was hurting the people he loved without ever meaning to.

He wasn’t going to lose Ignis, too.

So Noctis ate the small portion of grilled wild barramundi Ignis prepared for him on the spot.

Over the course of the next week, he started getting up at some point in the day, and eventually, even getting dressed.

After almost a month, Ignis and Gladio had to good-cop-bad-cop him out of bed for fear of Ignis’ voicemail filling up with calls from the school of Noctis’ unexcused absences. The advisor was running out of proof for the "business trips" and "conferences" the school thought Noctis was attending all this time.

And Noctis knew he couldn’t avoid returning to his "normal” life for very much longer — not unless he wanted his dad asking about him.

So he decided to go. He certainly didn’t stay the whole day, but it felt... _good_ to get back to some sort of schedule. His mind had gone to dark places during the waking hours of his time spent barricaded under thousands of blankets and pillows.

He hadn’t been himself then. He still doesn’t feel like himself, not really. The better part of himself is still missing.

But Noctis has been picking up the pieces, bit by bit. Maybe he can’t be the person he once was; that doesn’t stop him from becoming a different, lonelier version of it.

So now he goes to class, eats, and sleeps... alone.

The fact that he _is_ alone puts him on very high alert when the usual distant din of the cafeteria is suddenly very quiet.

Noctis removes his headphones to hear better, and double-checks the time on his phone to confirm his suspicions: fifth period lunch practically just started. There is something going on, and Noctis can’t shake the feeling that it’s nothing good.

The chopsticks Noctis is using for his ramen are raised to his lips much more slowly as Noctis stares at his math homework, poised in wait for for something, anything to happen.

But a few minutes pass, and there’s no change — just the prolonged silence of the cafeteria.

And then, the silence ends abruptly. There is an explosion of sound below him, and the cry of “Fight!” which tells Noctis all he needs to know.

Noctis has come to learn that an altercation at their school usually meant an overhyped slap fight. However, the gossip which ensues is somehow more effective than any spirit week at uniting the school under one common mission: to tell as wildly fabricated a story as possible.

Still, he runs to the window to see if the fight is happening in the school parking lot, which is where any of the battles worth their salt happen — usually over a bad parking job, or worse, a light collision. But Noctis waits for any sign of human life out there, and nothing changes.

With a annoyed huff, Noctis heads back to his seat and pulls his headphones back on to focus on something that’s actually important. He was the prince of Lucis, after all; he shouldn't be getting be getting himself involved in anything remotely related to gossip and fighting.

He sits straight up and rips his headphones out of his ears at the sound of the third floor door opening, and footsteps beginning a breakneck pace down the hall.

 _That could be anything._ In fact, it’s probably someone putting out the first big story of the day. Noctis guessed that by the time he left school, he'd have overheard enough tall tales to piece the truth together for himself.

However, seconds later, the staircase door slams open, heralding a second set of heavy footsteps that set off in the direction of the first.

 _Something is wrong._ It was already rare for a fight to happen _inside_ the school; for it to move from the cafeteria all the way the third floor in such a short span of time was unheard of.

Noctis wants to believe that things are alright; that those footsteps aren’t connected to whatever was going on downstairs, that he can return to his quiet lunch alone.

And for a brief second, he almost does. There is no other commotion for a long stretch of time. The silence is disarming.

And then a loud _bang_ pierces right through it, and Noctis immediately surges to his feet.

He bursts out of the room toward the sound of trouble, but there are so many hallways, so many rooms, and what Noctis knows is so little time. Every classroom is dark, but he pokes his head in anyway in case someone is there, using it as cover. However, he’s reaching the end of the last hallway, and he has found nothing and no one. All he needs is just one more clue.

Noctis gets it in the form of a bloodcurdling shriek from somewhere behind him — and he knows that voice as well as his own, even if he hasn't heard it in months.

" _Prompto?"_

A quick spin on the balls of his feet has Noctis shooting down the corridor, hoping he isn’t too late.

The sound of a desperate struggle in the boys’ bathroom stops Noctis dead in his tracks. He doesn’t know what he’s about to walk into, but he couldn’t be afraid. Whoever was in there is after Prompto and wants to _hurt him,_ and the only way that was ever going to happen is over Noctis' dead body.

He opens the door to the sound of labored grunts, sloshing water, and the unmistakable scent of an omega in distress. The latter makes the hairs on the back of Noctis’ neck bristle with grim anticipation.

The last stall door is open.

Noctis motions to take long strides towards it when a tall figure slowly makes its way out.

Malachi’s stance exudes raw power. His shoulders are pulled back, emphasizing the thick biceps attached to them. His fingers are dripping wet, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the look in his eyes is intense with contempt. He gives one sharp roll of the shoulders, and then huffs.

” _You._ "

Noctis and Malachi, despite having Prompto’s affections in common, have never actually spoken before. Noctis preferred it that way.

And right now, he only needs to know one thing from Malachi, who is in the room with the only omega Noctis has ever seen him around.

”Where’s Prompto?” Noctis asks darkly, letting his hands ball up into fists. He doesn’t care if Malachi is biggest or best high school football player in Insomnia; nothing about his him or his huge size scares Noctis.

Malachi chuckles and mimics the body language. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Noctis scowls and slowly steps forward a few feet, closing the gap between the two enraged alphas. “Do _not_ play games with me. Tell me where he is.“

”Or what, princey boy, huh? You're gonna hit me with the silver spoon shoved up your ass?”

” _Enough!_ ” Noctis thunders, walking right up to him. There are only a few inches separating them now; the only question left is who would throw the first punch.

They’re caught in a heated staring match until Malachi drops his head with a knowing smile on his lips.

”He’s waiting for you right here.”

Malachi steps aside and throws his arm out, as if presenting Noctis with a gift.

Noctis looks over and feels his heart drop through the floor, right into the core of the earth.

Prompto is slumped against the side of the toilet bowl, but his hair is drenched, his eyes are closed and his skin looks drained of all color.

He looks... _dead._

When Noctis looks back at Malachi's delighted expression, something in him snaps.

The familiar feeling of potent and formidable magic makes his fingertips itch, makes the air static with the energy and electricity in it. The only difference now is that he can't control it — not without Prompto.

Noctis roars as he raises a tight fist to Malachi's face.

Malachi is able to catch it with reflexes as quick as a whip, but staggers backward a few steps from the force of all of Noctis' fury.

It's just not enough.

Malachi shoves Noctis' fist backward, and the prince's body follows. With a few more feet between the two alphas, they're allowed to circle each other before the beginning of the end. Either Malachi or Noctis is leaving this room, and Noctis can't think about what it would mean if Malachi escaped after what he did.

If Prompto wasn't already dead, that would certainly be his sentence.

Noctis chances another half-second glance at Prompto; he still hasn't moved or even registered that there's anything even happening right in front of him.

They're running out of time.

Malachi strikes as soon as Noctis' guard is down, a jab aimed straight for the ribs; unfortunately, the prince isn't as good as his opponent at intercepting heavy fists.

Noctis catches it too late; Malachi's knuckles connect with bone, and Noctis knows he'll feel that in the morning, but a rush of adrenaline has diverted his attention into grabbing Malachi's shirt and driving him backwards into the wall.

The larger alpha grunts when his back is shoved into the hard tile, but that doesn't stop him from sending another thick fist into Noctis' jaw.

It makes Noctis' head spin and clutch the side of his face that's now numb with blinding pain; he can taste the iron tang of blood. Through bleary vision, he watches Malachi shake off the impact of hitting the wall, and head straight for him.

Noctis raises a fist to return the blow, but Malachi is faster. His hands shove Noctis backwards, and his back nearly bends in half when it hits the edge of the sink. It shouldn't have hurt that much, despite his spine bending at an uncomfortable angle much too quickly, but his chronic injury makes it feel like someone has snapped him in two.

All of his muscles are paralyzed with agony, leaving Noctis too vulnerable. Malachi is free to clamp his meaty hands on Noctis' neck, lift him, and slam him into the wall.

Again, Noctis' back is lit aflame, but his throat is too constricted to scream.

Reveling in just how _painful_ this is for Noctis, Malachi again pulls Noctis back and rams him into the wall. Noctis' skull bounces against the worn ceramic, and the real world suddenly seems very far away.

_How did things end up this way?_

As Malachi's hands start to squeeze on Noctis' windpipe, it solidifies his worst fears.

"I should have known you'd show up," Malachi says with a wicked smile on his lips. "Just makes it easier for me to get rid of all my problems."

_Malachi killed Prompto. And now, I'm going to die, too._

After everything that happened between them, Noctis still failed to be there for Prompto when he needed him most. At least it all made much more sense now: whatever compelled Malachi to take Prompto's life was the very thing that terrified Prompto into submission, into breaking up with Noctis and being with _him_ , instead of just _telling someone_.

Prompto would never, ever have wanted to burden Noctis with something like this. Noctis just wishes he'd noticed the signs sooner.

And yet, when he looks over at the open stall door that blocks Noctis' last view of Prompto, Noctis wonders why he is so willing to give up. Prompto didn't give up on surviving until Malachi did something about it.

So he can't give up on Prompto.

Noctis doesn't have much time before it gets too hard to breathe, but he realizes that he can just barely move his head. So he grips the back of Malachi's neck between his hands pulls both their skulls forward.

Their foreheads crash into each other the world goes dark.

Noctis can't see through the throbbing behind his closed eyes. The pain is too much, and it hurts to breathe deeply. When his feet finally touch the floor, they aren't strong enough to sustain his weight; without his arms hooking onto the edge of the sink, his body would fallen to the floor like a bag of bricks.

He has to keep fighting. He has to be the one making it out of this room and getting Prompto to safety. Nothing else matters.

His eyes crack open to see Malachi clutching the front of his head and heaving sharp, pained breaths. This is the only chance Noctis is ever going to save Prompto.

He takes it.

Noctis grabs as much dark red hair as he can fit in the grip of a tight fist, and rams Malachi's head into the mirror above the sink.

The sound of shattering glass fills the room, the edges cutting Noctis' hands, arms, and face.

He doesn't have enough energy to hold himself up anymore; he put everything he had into finishing this fight. Both he and Malachi drop to the floor, and everything is dark again.

This time, however, it's quiet.

Noctis slowly blinks awake, and Malachi is motionless on the floor. Droplets of blood trail from his body to splatter all over and drip from the sink. He might be dead.

_Just like Prompto._

Noctis wastes no sympathy on Malachi and no time in groggily crawling into the stall and dropping to the floor beside Prompto.

Prompto doesn’t look even remotely as Noctis remembers him. The water has washed away a lot of what appeared to be makeup on Prompto’s skin; underneath were bruises of virtually every age and color along his forehead, cheekbones, under his eye.

Someone has been abusing him for a long time... and Noctis did _nothing_ about it.

Prompto is still unresponsive, and Noctis’ hands are wet. He begins to panic when he realizes that Prompto’s chest probably hasn’t been moving this entire time, either.

”Oh no. Fuck, please, Prom, wake up...!” He shakes Prompto by the shoulders, as if his beautiful lavender eyes will suddenly flutter open and crinkle with joy at the sight of Noctis like they used to. They don't even twitch.

Immediately, Noctis looks down at the red water inside the toilet bowl, the puddle of water they were sitting in, and then Prompto’s dripping head.

_Malachi drowned him in a school toilet._

If it weren’t for the frantic panic that has now settled into Noctis’ heart, he would have made damn sure that Malachi really was dead right then and there.

Instead, he raises a hand and summons the single potion he carries with him in the Armiger, saved only for emergencies; and _this_ certainly fits the bill.

 _It has to work,_ Noctis tells himself. It was godsdamned _magic,_ after all. If it didn’t work, nothing would.

His hands crush the tiny bottle, and light scatters over Prompto’s body and dusts his eyelashes. Any second now, or as Ignis had described, Prompto’s face would fill with color again, and he’d sit up like nothing ever happened.

But the seconds pass, and Prompto hasn’t so much as breathed.

Noctis pushes the dark, sweat-damp hair out of his face with one hand; dread makes him inhale and exhale, sharply and heavily, in the hope that will help him think of a new plan. He doesn't know what he can do that magic can't, and panic is threatening to break him down with tears.

This couldn’t be how he lost Prompto forever. He couldn’t be too late.

There’s nothing left for him to do but to lower Prompto’s body to the floor, cross his hands over Prompto’s chest, and take a deep breath.

Their lips press together, and Noctis exhales with as much air as his lungs can squeeze out. After a second breath, he pumps hard on the lifeless chest beneath him.

He never wants to kiss Prompto again this way.

Noctis performs CPR again and again, but lightheadedness and choked sobs are making it hard to breathe.

”Please, Prom, please...” He pants, silent tears falling down his face. His hands are still pressing repeatedly into Prompto’s chest, working desperately to banish all the water from inside his lungs.

_I never ask you for anything. I hardly even speak to you._

Noctis leans down again and breathes into Prompto, despite not having yet caught his own breath. He can’t give up on Prompto.

_But you brought him to me. You made me love him more than I will ever love myself._

Exhausted, he rests his forehead against Prompto’s, and the skin is freezing and damp. His arms shake as they struggle to keep a smooth pace. He can’t give up on Prompto.

_If you have any mercy, give him back to me._

Noctis’ sobs are now uncontrollable. He’s too weak to maintain enough pressure on Prompto’s chest to save him. But he keeps trying, because he refuses to ever give up on Prompto.

He pushes air into Prompto's open mouth, even though his own lungs are burning. They can't keep up with the demand; they can't make enough oxygen for two people. Noctis' body is reaching its limit, and his determination can no longer make up the difference.

And then he feels a gentle resistance against his hands.

He's just in time to lift his head, look down, and see water streaming from the corner of Prompto’s lips.

The resistance becomes stronger, more forceful, and Noctis understands that his prayer has been answered. The gods have not completely forsaken him.

_I can't give up on Prompto._

Noctis digs deep within himself and finds the strength to pump with a renewed vigor against Prompto's convulsions. Soon, water comes sputtering out, and Prompto is rasping.

"Come on, Prom, I'm here, right here. Keep going." Noctis encourages, his voice more racked with emotion than he's ever heard it.

Prompto's shivering frame suddenly rolls to the side, and nearly folds in on itself every time Prompto lets out wet, hacking coughs.

Noctis is horrified by the amount of water that flows out from inside Prompto. _There is no way he could have survived that._

If he was even a minute later...

There's no time to worry about that now. Noctis has to focus on locking his arms around Prompto's waist and pulling inwards as tight as possible.

Prompto heaves, and one last stream of water splashes to the floor. The large puddle has tinted the floor tiles a watery pink.

"N-" Prompto croaks, but whatever he wants to say is interrupted by another violent bout of coughing. His hands instead weakly push against Noctis' own.

"Prom, it's _me,_ let me help you—"

But he is still squirming against Noctis' grasp, and Noctis is afraid of forcing him to do anything. So he lets go, and Prompto curls up again on the floor.

With no more water gushing out of him, Prompto just lays there and heaves incredibly labored breaths. His eyes are glazed over, his skin is pale and clammy, and his body is trembling as if he's never known warmth.

"Prompto," Noctis calls again, inching closer. Prompto needs Noctis' body heat. "I'm not going to hurt you. _No one's_ going to hurt you."

Lavender eyes slowly make their way to meet his own.

_"N - ... Noctis?"_

Noctis has never been happier to hear his name.

His head is nodding profusely, though the adrenaline is starting to give way to a pounding headache. "Yeah, Prom. It's me."

Prompto looks somewhere off to the right, and then to the left. Then he looks down, and his eyes linger for a moment on his stomach. A trembling hand rests on his navel, and then his eyes finally look up at Noctis again.

They begin to fill with tears.

"Noctis," Prompto whispers, his voice hoarse with the memory of death.

"I know," Noctis answers, slowly wrapping his arms around Prompto and holding him close.

" _Noctis,"_ Prompto sobs again, pressing his head into Noctis' bruised neck.

"I got you. I'm here. You're safe now."

Prompto’s hands grip Noctis’ shirt tight as Noctis rubs soothing circles into his back.

Prompto's body is shaking hard again, but this time, it’s due to his gasping wails.

Noctis wants to press kisses against his face to make it all better, the way he knows Prompto likes. But he’s frozen, unable to muster the courage to do more than keep his body wrapped around Prompto’s.

It’s not going to be enough. Even as Prompto’s tears start to subside, he is still trembling and yet remains too still.

One hand clutches the back of Prompto’s head and holds him there to help him rest before Noctis asks the impossible of him. “We can’t stay here. We gotta go.”

Noctis didn’t want to leave as much as Prompto probably couldn't even walk. He’s content to stay there forever if it means that he gets to make Prompto feel safe.

But that also means delaying the help that Prompto very desperately needs.

Prompto shakes his head and takes the opportunity to nuzzle against him. Butterflies that were long since dormant flutter to life in Noctis’ stomach.

Gods, this was going to be hard.

”Please, Prom, we have to. We can go somewhere safer and get help." _Help_ being a difficult and distressed conversation with Ignis.

"I have... to go home," Prompto says slowly, taking his time to breathe.

_He cannot be serious right now._

Noctis is taken aback, and his eyebrows furrow because of it. He looks down at the blonde in disbelief; there is no way Prompto is actually denying that he needs to go to a hospital.

"We're not going home, you're going to the emergency room."

Prompto pulls away from him just enough to stare him wildly in the eyes. He shakes his head with a stony, distant look on his face. "No. I have to... He's... waiting for me."

Noctis' eyebrows slowly cinch closer together with a quietly boiling anger. "Who's waiting for you? Malachi?"

Prompto looks away, and then around them, as if searching for something he'd lost. "No," he repeats. Then he pauses to think, and his head tiredly falls back against the nape of Noctis' neck. "Mal— ... No. Please. I need to go... He's waiting."

The anger within him is now doused with fear. There are only two possibilities: either Prompto isn't making sense because he's taken too many blows to the head, or he's doing a bad job hiding something about someone _else_ who was involved in Prompto's suffering. Either way, it would take too long to figure out what Prompto meant; Malachi could wake up at any second, and Noctis doesn't know if he has it in him to go for round two.

But after having very nearly lost Prompto, Noctis is a glutton for revenge on whoever he can get his hands on. " _Who's_ _waiting?"_

Pure terror activates Noctis' acute sense of smell. He can't see Prompto's face, but Noctis can easily sense that whoever it is incites the fear of the gods in him, right to the core of his soul.

Prompto is breathing faster, too fast, in the few seconds of silence it takes him to answer. "I have to go home," he squeaks.

Noctis looks towards the stall door, fearing that at any second, he was going to hear the sound of a giant getting ready for another fight.

"Okay, alright, I'll take you home," Noctis concedingly lies, and he really does feel terrible about it. But there's no time to argue, and if that's how he's going to get Prompto out of here as quickly as possible, then he'll break the rules now and ask forgiveness later.

" _Really?"_ Prompto asks sanguinely, and he looks up at Noctis like he's the entire world. Noctis' heart twists around itself in its misery, longing to lean in as he finds himself doing, wanting the feeling of Prompto's warm, soft lips pressing against his own more than anything in the world —

But he stops. It's cruel to ask for his affection _now_ , when Prompto was already so exhausted, vulnerable, and clearly confused. For the gods' sake, he was just brought back from the dead. Noctis has to set his own desires aside right now and get Prompto help.

"Yeah. Really." He breathes, trying to hide the pain in his voice. "So let's go."

Prompto finally nods, but then sighs tiredly. His breathing slows.

”Nonono, no sleeping,” Noctis frantically warns, shifting their position so it was easier to stand. “Come on, Prom, we’re going home, remember? We gotta get up.”

Prompto is groaning as Noctis stands and pulls Prompto up. The blonde slowly, _slowly_ , staggers to his feet.

Noctis catches him as soon as he sees the look on Prompto’s face: like he had neither the will nor the ability to hold himself up.

Sure enough, Prompto’s weight sags in his arms as his quivering knees fight to straighten and stabilize.

Worried about literally waking the beast, Noctis looks quickly behind him, then back at Prompto. At this rate, they weren’t going anywhere.

”I got you, Prom, come on,” Noctis says quickly before leaning down and slipping one of Prompto’s arms around his shoulders. Noctis lifts him up just enough for Prompto to take a disoriented step.

They’re moving out of the stall, but Prompto freezes again as soon as they step out. They stumble forward a few paces, but when Noctis looks exasperatedly beside him and follows Prompto’s eyes, he understands why they've stopped.

Prompto is sheet white at the sight of Malachi on the floor. His head rests in a small pool of his own blood, tiny glass shards sticking out of the blunt force wound catching the light and weeping profusely in the center of his forehead.

 _It was Malachi or Prompto_... _Or me._

”It’s okay, Prom, he’s not going to hurt you again,” Noctis gently reassures him. “But we have to hurry before he wakes up.”

Prompto looks back at Noctis, and his eyes are wide and afraid. He doesn’t believe that for a second.

”Listen to me. _He is not going to hurt you._ Not while I’m here.”

Their eyes linger on each other before Prompto looks down at Malachi, then at the floor. His hand rises to rest on his stomach again.

Prompto doesn’t say anything else as they head for the door, and Noctis is left with dark thoughts about how Malachi could have so badly traumatized Prompto, and how Noctis had failed to notice it — how he had failed Prompto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^) i love to suffer don't you


	3. part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends!!! glad to see you back. did you have a nice time where you'd gone? that's good to know.
> 
> please enjoy the fruits of my 2am labor

There’s no way they’re making it off the third floor. Prompto can barely stumble down the hallway, much less make it down a staircase without tripping them both.

So they're left with no other option than duck into the classroom with Noctis’ bookbag, lunch, and unfinished homework inside. It’s not very far from the bathroom, but there’s a corner of the room that’s out of sight of the door.

Noctis snatches his phone off the desk as they stumble and stagger to the corner.

“There you go, Prom,” he mutters as Prompto’s disoriented body is propped up against the wall; Prompto wouldn't be able to even sit up in one of the desk chairs by himself without falling out of it.

It takes a while, but Noctis manages to settle them both on the floor without dropping anyone. He's now free to take in the harrowing sight of Prompto's deathly pale skin, devoid of the natural flush which once brightened his cheeks.

”Where are we?” Prompto asks in a thick voice, his head lolling to the side. Fearful that Prompto will either tip over and hit the floor or accidentally smack his head into the drywall, Noctis grabs Prompto and pulls him in close and still.

”We’re still in school. I’m going to call for someone to come and get us, okay?” Noctis pants. He's exhausted, too; admittedly, his head is still throbbing from throwing it into Malachi's. In hindsight, that might not have been the best way to headbutt somebody, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

That, and being nearly choked to death, has sapped Noctis of most of his energy.

Prompto delays in answering, and Noctis can't help but feel guilty; he has no right to complain about feeling tired. Eventually, he nods slowly so he can snuggle into Noctis’ warm body. Noctis _should_ be worried that Prompto clearly isn't all here, but Prompto is doing exactly what Noctis has been missing for four months.

The burning desire to kiss Prompto is on his mind again, but he has to focus on speed dialing Ignis.

The phone only rings once before Ignis is in his ear: “Yes, Highness?”

Noctis nearly cries on the spot. His emotions are shot, and that makes him eternally grateful to hear a familiar and friendly voice.

Instead, he takes a shaky breath, and then whimpers, ”Ignis.”

"Noctis? What's wrong?" Ignis' tone turns gentle and patient; aside from Prompto, Ignis knows Noctis best. When things go wrong, Ignis is the first person he calls.

“You have to come to the school. Prompto’s hurt. He needs help, I-I don’t know what to do —“ Noctis is trying to hold back the tears, mainly because he can't waste time trying to get Ignis to understand him while he's crying, but it's... hard. He's never been through _anything_ like this in his life, but for some reason, seeing Prompto this way... it reminds him of his mom. How he'd been powerless to save her, just like he can do nothing to fix Prompto's broken soul.

In comparison, the resuscitation was the easy part — things have gotten worse with every passing minute. Prompto has quickly been losing consciousness since they started their trek from the bathroom to the classroom, and Noctis doesn’t know what to do to help except hold him up when he can’t walk, wake him up when he tries to sleep, and pray to the gods that he’ll stop _shivering._

“ _Prompto’s hurt_? I’m on my way. Where are you? Are you alright? Have you called for help yet?”

”We’re - we’re on the third floor, it’s Room 318, but I can’t get him downstairs. I just... Called you, I-I didn’t know who else to — Please, Ignis, just _hurry_ ,” Noctis begs, his patience for answering all these questions running thin. He's too busy rubbing Prompto’s arms as he’s overtaken by a violent trembling and hyperventilation; at this point, Noctis can't even really talk to Ignis right now. What's worse is that Prompto is _cold,_ too cold, and Noctis doesn't have anything to warm him up with.

”Noctis. I need to know if you're okay.”

” _I’m fine!”_ Noctis snaps. For once in his life, he wants the attention to be on the one person who _actually_ needs it.

But the shouting makes Prompto jump, and Noctis is afraid he’s given Prompto a heart attack. Instead, he heaves desperate, choked gasps and Noctis softly shushes him as an apology.

”I — am — _fine_ ,” he repeats slowly, trying to keep his voice quiet and even although he wants to rage and scream. “But Prompto needs medical attention, and I need you to call for help. Tell Gladio to meet us here, too. But whatever you do...

“Do not tell _anyone else_ about this. As far as anyone outside the three of us knows, Prompto is still at school. Understood?” Noctis doesn’t know why Prompto wants to go home, but it’s safe to assume Prompto doesn’t have the most presence of mind right now, or the best judgement.

So whatever makes Prompto want to go home is probably the _last_ thing that Noctis wants to deliver him to.

“... Yes, Highness. I'll arrive in approximately ten minutes. An ambulance may be there sooner. They will instructed to maintain absolute privacy.”

”Okay. _Hurry._ And — Thank you, Ignis.” Noctis ends, cradling Prompto’s head as his hypothermic shivers start to intensify.

”Of course, Highness. I'll be there for you both shortly.” The call ends, allowing Noctis to cast his phone aside on the floor in favor of using both hands to pull Prompto closer.

After a few minutes of Noctis helping Prompto breathe through another attack, the shaking and harsh inhales gave way to quiet wheezing gasps.

His only task now is to keep Prompto awake until someone comes for them.

_What does he do?_

”Hey, Prom. Um...”

Yesterday, if he knew he’d have the chance to talk to Prompto, he’d have a million questions. Mainly, _what went wrong?_

Now, all he wants to ask is _How can I make it right?_

”Do you remember we met? Like, not... not as kids, but for real?”

Prompto’s breathing stops, but then comes back calmer, less stiff. “Freshman year.”

“First day, yeah,” Noctis fills in for him. “It was so _weird,_ because I was, uh... pretty worried that I wouldn’t, you know... make any friends.” He chuckles awkwardly, feeling a little more than shy. It’s not often that he talks about his feelings.

Prompto always makes it easy.

”And then you just ran up, and you were basically like, ‘Hey, we’re friends now, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Looking back, that was probably the best moment of my entire life,” he finishes with a chuckle, and he can feel Prompto’s shoulders shake with a contagious giggle.

”But there was also that time where I finally headshotted you in Call of Duty. Now _that,_ ” he teases, playfully squeezing Prompto a little, “that was pretty cool, don’t you think?”

Just as Noctis had hoped, Prompto groans indignantly. “I t-told you already, it... it glitched...!” Raising his voice makes him cough, but he’s quietly laughing through it.

“So you say. But I got skills, and I never saw any glitch. I had a clean shot, just admit you were caught slipping.”

”Noctis, I swear to the gods, I’m gonna...”

 _Kill you._ That obviously hit a little too close to home.

The brief silence is pregnant with the everything and nothing that had happened between them in the last half hour.

”Commit high treason?” Noctis provides at last. “Now, that’s not very nice.”

Prompto doesn’t even try to laugh. He stays quiet, his shoulders sinking.

They stay like that for a long while. Noctis doesn’t push it, and simply holding Prompto like this feels much better without their deaths laying just a few feet away.

”Noctis... I'm so sorry. For... everything.” As Prompto forces out the words, it occurs to the both of the,m that Prompto doesn't really know what he's apologizing for; he doesn't know what Noctis had to do to save him. Prompto was _dead_ in the bathroom stall.

Which is exactly why it made Noctis fume that Malachi or anyone else had made Prompto think he should apologize for needing someone to help him — to save his life.

”Stop it, Prom. I don’t want to hear that. It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Prompto doesn’t answer. Noctis can practically feel him shrinking away, hiding himself. Noctis watched him do that countless times with countless others — never with him.

”Hey, I mean it, _none of this is your fault_ , alright? Whatever happened between you and him, or whatever you _think_ you did to deserve this... none of this should be happening you, and it's definitely not your fault."

Noctis hears Prompto’s breath hitch, and the exhale is shaky, charged with emotion. He remains silent, but they both know that they can’t avoid the conversation any longer.

”Please, Prom, you don’t need to hide from me. I'm not gonna hurt you, I— ...” Noctis’ voice cuts off abruptly, afraid to say what’s in his heart. But he can’t ask Prompto to trust him if Noctis isn’t willing to do the same.

”I love you. I never stopped. All this time, you’re still all I think about.”

Prompto’s shoulders start to shake again, and Noctis listens to him cry. Noctis rubs his back with one hand and uses the other to lightly thread his fingers through the blonde hairs at the bottom of Prompto’s skull.

_When was the last time someone said that to you? When was the last time someone held you and told you everything was going to be alright?_

” _You don’t know what I’ve done,_ ” Prompto chokes through his tears.

”You’re right,” Noctis says quietly. “But I also know you’d never do anything to hurt me, or anyone else, ever... So whatever it is can’t actually be all that bad. You’re not a bad person for doing what you needed to do to survive. Whatever you did... I forgive you, Prompto."

Promoto shakes his head, his cries beginning to turn into sobs.

”I forgive you, it's okay. You're not a bad person.” Noctis quietly assures, giving into his yearning to say the words with his lips brushing against Prompto’s ear, to pull Prompto onto his lap and lock one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders. The top of Prompto’s head instinctively dips just below Noctis' jaw, resisting the urge to cry into his shoulder.

” _I need to go home,”_ Prompto whispers. _“Please, Noctis, I have to go,_ please _—“_

Noctis would be lying if he said it didn't pierce him deeper than any knife that Prompto is still refusing to let him in, to let him help. In confessing his feelings, he's driven Prompto away; he hoped that by showing Prompto kindness, maybe he'd feel safer, less afraid. Now, Noctis is pretty sure he's added onto Prompto's list of things that are just _way_ _too much_ to deal with right now. Defeated, he again holds back his own tears once more to anguishedly whisper, “That’s where we’re going. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“He’s waiting for me. I-I can’t — _He’s waiting_.”

”I know, Prom. Don’t worry. It’s all gonna be okay.”

Prompto removes his hands from against Noctis’ chest to gingerly rest on his own belly, which Noctis is just noticing is more curved than he'd ever seen or felt it before. It shouldn't have been an issue, but Prompto's hollowed cheeks are a dead giveaway that it isn't just extra weight.

His heart stops beating. The very notion makes him sick to his stomach.

_What if he’s...._

No, he couldn’t be. Prompto was an omega, but... Malachi wouldn’t do that. If he was willing to _murder_ Prompto, there was no way he wanted Prompto to bear his child, too.

_But they were dating. Malachi is Insomnia Prep’s most popular student. And Prompto, well... clearly, there were consequences for going against Malachi's wishes._

Noctis wants to ask, but he knows that would probably break the fragile bridge between them. It was hanging on by a string, just like Prompto.

So he leaves it alone.

They both stop breathing at the sound of the staircase door sweeping open.

Noctis’ heart is the one to start racing first, adrenaline pumping through his weary veins.

 _That could be Malachi,_ and Noctis needs to be ready.

Noctis swallows hard and slips out from underneath Prompto, despite the blonde reaching for his arm and clutching it as tight as his weak hands can grip. Noctis looks back at Prompto’s terrified, tear-strewn face to see him silently mouth, “ _No_.”

But Noctis is afraid, too, if the cold sweat beading on his forehead is any evidence. If it’s not Ignis or Gladio or some godsdamned _help_ coming their way, then this may be the last time that they ever get to hold each other, to be together like this.

If this was all Noctis got for the rest of his life, he couldn't complain. He may not have been able to prevent Prompto's death, but at least he didn't have to die alone this time. He places a hand on Prompto’s and mouths back, “It’s okay.”

He pulls Prompto’s fingers away and turns back to focus on the door to the classroom, planning to use the element of surprise against Malachi if he comes in, when Prompto stubbornly reaches to cup his cheek.

Noctis stops immediately, and their eyes meet again. Prompto looks _focused_ on him, as if he were momentarily absolved of all the pain and suffering he’d ever experienced.

When he leans forward and their lips touch, Noctis melts.

He surges forward in his fervor for more of Prompto's tender, breathy kisses, trying to hold back the might of all his pent-up passion in favor of being _gentle, sensitive, and soothing._

Those have always been some of the best words for describing Prompto. But now they have been twisted by cruel hands, and it'll be a long time before his edges soften into something new, something stronger; and most importantly, nothing like he is now. Noctis wants to provide all the love it's going to take to get Prompto there.

Prompto holds Noctis’ face between his hands, enticing him to come closer, to follow the sensation of Prompto’s lips kissing him like it was the first time and the last.

What can Noctis do but obey?

He crawls ever closer to Prompto, placing an arm on either side of his smaller body and shielding him from whoever was going to walk in. _No one_ was ever going to separate them again if Noctis could help it.

Noctis stays, and Prompto thanks him with one last weary kiss.

When they separate, and Noctis' instinctive hunger for _more_ isn't satisfied, he peppers kisses against the omega's cheeks to keep him calm as the footsteps approach. They’re heavy, and Noctis is bristling in anticipation of another fight. The gods have already given him so many miracles; there was hardly any chance that he was going to get another. Eventually, Noctis' curiosity gets the better of him, and he looks back in suspense of their fate.

There’s a quick gentle knock, and the door opens.

Ignis’ tall frame comes into view, and Noctis physically and audibly relaxes, as if he were disarming himself.

He has never been more glad to have so wrongly misjudged the gods.

”Noctis. Promp—“ Ignis is interrupted by the sight of Prompto’s near-lifeless body collapsed between Noctis and the wall, his face bloody and bruised beyond belief.

Noctis stares up at him pointedly and gives the hint of a head shake, discouraging any further mention of Prompto's appearance. Prompto would be irrevocably beside himself if he had the consciousness to remember to worry about what he looked like.

“Ah... The ambulance will be here in two minutes. I am afraid they will be unable to get the gurney up here and back down without somewhat compromising our position.

At this point, that much was to be expected, but it doesn’t make Noctis feel better about the increased risk of being seen.

“Fine. Where’s Gladio? He can give us some cover.”

“He will be arriving with the ambulance. If I may, I’d like to take a look at Prompto.”

The request gives Noctis pause. Under normal circumstances, or virtually any other circumstance for that matter, Noctis would be grateful for Ignis’ affinity for taking control of terrible situations.

But Prompto is barely stirring beneath him; all these emotions running high have seriously drained him, just as Noctis feared. In such a worrisome state, it's highly unlikely that Prompto will afford Ignis the same shaky trust he’s been building with Noctis. It’s even less likely that Noctis is actually willing to separate himself from Prompto, his omega, his _soulmate,_ who he’d found dead less than half an hour ago. Nothing and no one was getting between him and Prompto — and right now, that includes Ignis.

Noctis’ head turns back to Prompto so he can watch for any sign of improvement — or worse, a sharp decline. “Ignis, he’s not... he’s not in good shape.”

Ignis raises a suspicious eyebrow; he knows Noctis can be a tad protective (and borderline territorial), especially when it comes to Prompto, but, being a beta, he's much more levelheaded in the presence of a distressed omega than Noctis could ever be. “I can see that; which is why I think I should look at him. It’s best to identify complications early, as it will help the Emergency Response team act faster.”

“I don’t want to overwhelm him.” Noctis' tone markedly suggests that Ignis back off; right now, Noctis was the only thing keeping Prompto alive, and he intended to keep it that way. With Ignis clucking like a hen over them, Prompto might get too stressed out for his own good.

Ignis says nothing for a while, but then his footsteps adamantly slowly creep closer. They come to a stop somewhere close enough to make Noctis _listen to him_ while still giving the two their space. Noctis can practically see him standing there, arms crossed with irritation at Noctis' stubborn ways, concern and impatience written all over his face.

But before Ignis can even speak, Prompto’s hands shoot from his stomach to clutch his head. His body curls inward and seizes up with a sharp and sudden pain. He screams, and although he quickly stifles it by biting down his battered bottom lip, it sounds as though he's been lit on fire.

"Prom, what is it, what's wrong?" Noctis does all that he can: shushes him gently, cradles Prompto's body, rubs his back; but he is also quickly realizing that there's nothing more he can do.

A shudder like death's rattle shakes the omega's tense frame, and then his muscles fall limp against Noctis' body. Horror settles back into Noctis' heart as he realizes that Prompto is literally dying in his arms.

The prince looks behind him with bulging eyes and jaw slack with dread, at the only person who can do more for Prompto than whatever small consolation he can offer, and the look on his face pleads with the words that his voice can't find:

_Save him._

Ignis rushes forward and falls to his knees in front of Prompto as Noctis settles back down on the floor, still holding Prompto close.

"It's his head," Ignis infers almost immediately, although it makes sense as soon as it's said: Prompto's skull is practically compressing itself against Noctis' shoulder, and the palms of his hands are pressed tight against his temples. "He has sustained head injuries, correct?"

It now occurs to Noctis that he doesn't know exactly what Malachi had done to Prompto, either.

All he can remember is haunting sight of the bloodstained water inside the toilet bowl, and the way Prompto was slumped against its side with more than a gallon of that water swimming in his lungs.

" _Yeah,_ " Noctis chokes out, his voice about three octaves too high. "A-A lot. I think."

"You _think,_ or do you know?" Ignis locks eyes with him, but Noctis can barely speak through the tears that are threatening to overtake him. The memory is too raw and painful for him to recount, he can't face them while Prompto is fading fast right in front of him. He needs more time, just as Prompto did.

Ignis sighs and reaches into his pocket for his phone. "Alright. Turn his face towards me and open his eye."

Noctis is reluctant to do as told, but he cups Prompto's cheek with one hand. "Ignis is gonna help you, okay, Prom? Just trust me."

Prompto doesn't seem to hear him through the pain that's likely splitting his head open, or the new, quiet bout of hyperventilation that racks his body; it all only makes Noctis more worried. Gently, he moves Prompto's head away from his shoulder and towards Ignis, then pulls Prompto's hands away from his face.

His index fingers pry Prompto's bloodshot eye open, not that there's much resistance. Prompto's responses are all much too delayed; he's slow in his attempt to blink, or even shift his gaze, and the look on his face only becomes more confused and far away.

"Prompto, I'm going to be shining a light in your eye. Try not to blink."

It's unclear to Noctis how shining a light in his face will fix anything, but he trusts Ignis' intuition to do the right thing. However, the blonde reacts almost immediately to the pain he experiences when Ignis turns the flashlight on and aims it directly at his pupil.

His eye waters and resists Noctis' fingers, which are struggling to keep to keep their grip long enough for Ignis to finish... whatever the hell it is that he's doing.

When Prompto lets out a soft, pained wail, Noctis has had enough.

"Stop it, Ignis, _you're_ _hurting him!"_ Noctis shouts, letting go of Prompto's eyelids. No sooner does Noctis draw him in than Prompto is shuddering and jerking against him, retching hard. There's only one thing that could mean.

" _The trash can!"_ Noctis commands sharply, and Ignis is almost too late in running to the other corner of the room to snatch the receptacle and bring it back. As soon as he shoves it in the omega's face, Prompto is heaving nothing but stomach fluid, blood, and water into it.

Each violent hurl seems to decimate the little energy he has left in him to keep going.

"Please, Prom, it's gonna be okay, you just have to hold on a little bit longer... _Why the fuck would you do that?!"_ Noctis screams at Ignis, unable to resist the temptation of having someone to take his anger out on — and he's got quite a lot of it.

Ignis looks just as terrified as Noctis feels. "I — I expected it was a concussion, I didn't know it was this — this —" _This bad._ Again, the silence is filled with so many questions of _what happened?_ that only Prompto can answer.

And currently, he is fighting for his life against the rim of a school trashcan.

"Well, it _is_ , Ignis! And — You know what? Forget it. Just — go find out where the godsdamned ambulance and Gladio are, and get them up here. Maybe they can be of some real help," Noctis spits venomously at him. The look on Ignis' face tells Noctis that he maybe went a little _too_ far, but he can't be bothered about that now; all his attention is on holding Prompto's hair back as his stomach gives up on trying to expel the _nothing_ that's inside of him.

He can only hope that doesn't mean Prompto is giving up, too.

* * *

Prompto has never gone so long with so little of his consciousness left to him. But then again, this experience is all new and unchartered territory.

It's a terrifying existence.

As soon as he comes to, the world is much, much too bright; it sends him for a loop and makes him want to go back to sleep. Although, he isn't sure if he could call the pure and utter nothingness he's been extricated from the same thing as _sleep._ It felt much too desolate and empty to call it that.

This new environment isn't much better. His eyes are definitely still closed, but the cold light hitting his eyelids is bright enough to spark a dull pain in the front of his head.

Already, he's exhausted, but he's scared that if he falls unconscious again, he won't wake up.

So Prompto opts to keep going because he has to. Slowly, he cracks his eyes open.

A cacophony of light, sound, and _pain_ overwhelm his senses, and his eyes squeeze back shut so he can drown it all out. It's too much, _everything is too much,_ but it's either this or... an all-consuming darkness.

He has to take baby steps, but right now, a building headache and a stabbing sensation in his jaw are demanding all his attention. Worst of all, every breath comes out as a labored wheeze; just breathing is like torture.

It's unclear why everything hurts so much, and to try and remember anything before the void only makes his headache worse. Hell, he isn't even sure of his own name.

The only thing he does know is that wherever he is, there are people there; their voices swim in and out of earshot, but he can't recognize any of them. Their words are muffled by a distinct and monotonous beeping, which only adds to the pressure growing behind his eyes.

The only way he's going to find out where he is or what happened to him is if he opens them.

 _For what?_ He asks himself.

It's going to hurt to open his eyes, whatever is going on with his body will make sure of that. On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to _just let go._ He wouldn't have to worry about whether or not he was going to wake up again; he'd simply drift away and leave all the pain and guilt behind.

_But what about the baby?_

The thought comes to Prompto, more than that it was created. He can't remember any baby, even if it doesn't make him nauseous to think back past ten seconds ago, but something in him demands that he keeps fighting for its sake. It's the only thing that makes sense in Prompto's deeply confusing reality.

He has to keep going, so he does. Prompto slowly lets his eyelids separate, his headache increasing a thousand fold with every millimeter of harsh fluorescent light hitting his pupils, until he is staring up at a blank white ceiling.

The sound of life around him rises to a crescendo: footsteps, quiet voices, loud voices, laughter, crying, pens being clicked, keyboards being typed on.

Prompto has learned to be very afraid of other people. And now he is surrounded by them.

He has to get out of there. He has to go home.

When he tries to sit up, however, every muscle and nerve ending protests with exquisite agony. Every rise and fall of his chest feels like someone is impaling him with a spiked mace, over and over, and it sends him right back down.

The exertion of fighting through everything he's feeling leaves Prompto throwing his head back against the stiff surface beneath him and sucking in sharp, heavy breaths through his nose, as deep as his lungs will allow. His eyelids are getting much too heavy, darkness is closing in on all edges of his vision, and pain is threatening to overwhelm and overtake him. He wants nothing more in the world than to just go back to sleep, but every fiber of his being is begging him not to.

_Okay, so I can't leave. Then where the hell am I?_

The rest of Prompto's vision suddenly comes into view as if the lights just turned themselves on.

Immediately, he puts together that he's laying in a bed with a heavy neck brace weighing his head down, needles injected in and taped over his wrists, and wide tubes passing through his stomach and chest. He turns his head ever so slightly, and his eyes follow the veins up to an vast collection of identical clear bags hanging from poles. A heart monitor beeps away somewhere behind him.

_How did I end up in the hospital?_

This has to be some sort of mistake — they've mistaken him for someone else, or shipped him here by accident while he was knocked out. All Prompto knows is that he should _not_ be laying here, barely able to even move or think, when he's got a million other problems to be concerned about.

At least, that's what his instinct is telling him. He doesn't exactly remember what those million other things are, exactly, but he knows they're important; they make him clammy with nervousness, and speed up the pace of his heart. What he is sure of, though, is that the sooner he's out of here, the better.

"Hello?" Prompto calls, but his voice cuts off because it hurts to speak. His throat is too dry, and moving his jaw numbs the right side of his face. But maybe if he can get someone in here, he can explain that there's been a _huge_ mix-up. They'll just give him his things (if he came with any), and he'll be well on his way... as soon as he can get up.

But no one hears him. Everyone outside the slit of a window on the door keeps walking, as if they couldn't spare Prompto a second glance. He needs to be louder, but his vocal chords feel brittle and ready to snap.

" _Please,"_ he tries again, his voice cracking in its attempt to increase its volume anyway, "Someone. I-I need —"

"There's a button on the side so you can call a nurse in," a voice calls out, making Prompto nearly jump out of his skin. _Someone heard him_.

The words don't yet register even before Prompto turns his head in the direction of the sound. There's a giant, pastel green plastic curtain which separates the two sides of the room, but someone is definitely in here with him.

A button on the side... The next step was to actually find and press it.

The voice helps him along again, and it can't belong to someone who is older than ten: "It's the very first one on the left."

He pauses for a few moments, his brain needing more than a few moments to process the words. Then his head lolls back over to the left, and he can just make out the buttons on the side of the bed; a big, green one is closest to him.

It takes a lot of convincing himself, but Prompto works up the courage to inch his arm over a little. He's afraid that it will hurt just as much as it did to try and sit up, but he's been blessed to find that the only feeling there is a sore throbbing. He can survive that.

So he slowly slips his hand off the side of the bed and presses the button.

A gentle chime comes from somewhere below him, and Prompto lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Things were going to be just fine now; they were going to return to normal.

Prompto draws his arm back in close and rewards himself with a few seconds of deep breathing — or as deep as his lungs will allow — with closed eyes to relax himself and quell his pounding migraine. _It's going to be okay._

"Did you get it?" The child asks.

Prompto peels his eyes open, but it's not any easier to take in all of the lights, the sounds.

"Yeah," he heaves, letting his head fall to the right again to stare at the divider between them. His eyes are having a hard time to adjusting to the bright light, but he can just make out the shadow of another body laying in bed. Someone much smaller, much younger, who is also having some trouble making it out of there. "Thank you."

"No problem," he answers almost immediately (or at least Prompto thinks it's a boy; he can't really be sure). "My name's Louis. What's yours?"

Prompto wished he could say.

Instead, the door opens behind him, inviting in even more light into the room. Prompto groans with the steep increase in pressure that is now threatening to rip his head open. Despite so many other afflictions, his stomach still feels the need to turn like bad milk.

"Hi, Mr. Argentum, I'm Nurse Tristitia, you called for me. It's great to see you awake! How are you feeling?"

 _Just great._ A nurse isn't going to have enough authority to let him leave — but maybe she'll find him a doctor who does, if he can convince her of his clean bill of health.

Prompto turns to her, and although it hurts to look at the nurse's floral pattered scrubs for too long, the look of concern on her face and the clipboard and pen ready in her hands makes Prompto a little more than nervous. "Hi. Um... I feel fine. Can I go?"

The nurse stares at him blankly before crossing her arms, the pen now tapping against her chin. "You just woke up."

Her tone suggests that she doesn't just mean an overnight rest. _How long have I been out?_

"Yup." Prompto decides to play along while masking the wincing in his voice every time he has to move his jaw. "And I'm all better now. So... I need my stuff. Please." He wants to look her in the face to prove it, but every bone in his body is warning him _not_ to do that. Bad things will happen if he looks her in the eyes, he's sure of it, even though he knows it makes no sense.

Then again, _nothing_ about this situation is making any sense.

Trisitia moves closer, and Prompto suddenly freezes up with terror. He _does not_ want anyone coming anywhere near him right now, and it's showing on the EKG monitor; the intervals between rising peaks and falling dips gets shorter and shorter, and the beeping speeds up significantly.

Tristitia looks alarmedly at the screen, and is quick to step back farther than where she'd come. Prompto is eternally grateful for the space, because his muscles relax and blood stops pounding against his eardrums.

Prompto feels her eyes on him, and it's uncomfortable; he feels like he's being _watched_.

"Do you remember anything from before you became unconscious?"

_I was unconscious?_

It's Prompto's turn to stare at her dark purple slip-on sneakers. He probably would, if his head wasn't still trying to knock him out. But he can't say that anything is wrong with him, not if he wants to get out; something inside him is demanding that he keep his mouth shut. It becomes imperative that he downplay his pain as much as possible.

"Y-Yes."

She raises her eyebrows and cocks her head slightly to the side. Without an ounce of belief in Prompto's lies, Nurse Tristitia chuckles and rolls on the backs on her feet a few times. When she looks back at him, she leans her head in just so. "Okay. So, what were you wearing when you came into the hospital, Mr. Argentum?"

The question catches him completely off guard. "What?"

"When you came into the hospital yesterday, what clothes were you wearing?" She clarifies, though her tone suggests that he won't know the answer.

He doesn't.

But he has to answer fast; the longer he lets the awkward silence drag itself out, the less believable he becomes. Most of all, he needs to actually _remember_ in order to answer correctly; but his headache is making it impossible. Eventually, the mounting pressure from Prompto's intense thinking forces him to close his eyes and take quick, shallow breaths once more, if only to take the edge off.

He gives up on trying to regain his memories; if it worsens his headache to try and remember why he was even there, there's no point in trying to remember what he was _wearing_ when he came. Still, he has to try something, anything that was most likely to be his key to freedom: "I-It was, um... jeans."

She nods again, now tapping the pen against her lip. "And what color were they? Your jeans?"

Prompto is definitely irritated at the doctor's sudden interest in his sense of style. He avoids seething out, _I don't know, just get me out of here,_ and instead answers with, "Blue jeans, okay? I was in — I was in blue jeans."

The pen stops moving, and then rests against the clipboard. "You were actually in your school uniform."

_Shit._

Prompto groans again, but this time, it's out of frustration. "So _what_ if it's jeans or my uniform or whatever? You can't keep me here, and I want to leave!" His throat is scratchy, and the shouting makes him cough.

That's when it's game over.

The coughing throws Prompto's torso upwards, but pain simultaneously sears down his back and explodes at the base of his spine. It's enough to make him scream and dig his nails into his palms, but not to stop his body from writhing in its suffering.

"Mr. Argentum, please!" Nurse Trisitia calls out, and although she's tempted to take a step forward, she holds herself back.

Prompto is the one who has to force himself to stay still with his back against the firm mattress beneath him, or else feel Ifrit dragging his fingernail up and down Prompto's back. Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes by the time the seizures of pain die down and leave Prompto a heaving mess.

_He's not getting out of here any time soon._

When Trisitia is also sure that Prompto isn't going to hurt himself again, she clicks her pen and scribbles quickly, madly on the clipboard. "I apologize sincerely for my actions; please forgive me for if I upset you. If I can, I'd like to just ask you a few questions, is that alright?"

Prompto's eyes are squeezed shut, but that's probably for the best; if they were open, he'd have rolled his eyes far, far up in the back of his head. Whether or not it's alright with him, she is going to ask as many questions as she'd like; it's not like he can get out of bed and walk away.

"Sure, my pleasure," he answers in a voice dripping with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

Prompto can imagine the terse look on her face at how rude Prompto could be for someone who was nearly about to have their ass handed to them by their own body.

"Thank you," she says much too gently, though it's not without a little tart. "Now, I have some news concerning your health that may upset you, but it may help you remember what happened. Would you like me to tell you first, or ask you the questions?"

_Now that was a much different question._

"What's the news about?"

She doesn't answer at first. "As I said, it concerns your health."

Prompto is so _tired of fighting_ that he doesn't think he can take much more. There's a million things that could be wrong with his health, but the prospects only grow because he can't remember much of anything. If he has any pre-existing conditions, or underlying complications, or if he's even slept with half of Insomnia, he has no clue. He can’t remember.

So then what does it matter?

"Just... tell me."

"Okay. I would like to step a little bit closer, since this is rather, uh, sensitive information... If you don't mind, of course."

Prompto _does_ mind, but he doesn't protest as Trisitia comes to stand at the foot of the bed. He's at least grateful for the heads up.

She sighs only once, and then leans her clipboard and pen between her legs and the banister around the foot of the bed. When she stands back up, she folds her hands in front of her.

"You came here, Intensive Care, from school in a critical condition. You went straight into ER, and we saw that you were about four months pregnant, so we immediately ran a diagnostic and a few x-rays, and we found that you had..." She glances over at her clipboard, and reads the results out:

"Outside of general periphery bruising, there were fractures in two of your left ribs, in your right jaw, and in your skull, as well as acute concussion and cranial bruising... And, uh... Well, your left lung, it... it collapsed while we were transporting you here." When she finishes, the silence between them is heavy. It all makes sense; Prompto's chest is _killing_ him, and this is probably the worst migraine he's ever had. As much as she tries to hide it, her hands are shaking.

She isn't finished.

"Later, we were also advised by the person who brought you here, that we should do a, um— a sexual assault kit. So we did that, and... Well, the results weren't very good, either. Again, you had acute bruising, fissuring, and signs of past internal bleeding... Then we got your bloodwork back about an hour after that, and there was dehydration, low blood pressure, low blood sugar, all just symptoms of poor nutrition.

"So really, what I'm trying to say, here, Mr. Argentum, is that... your chances at recovery were _extremely_ unlikely. There were a lot of time-consuming surgeries to be done, we had to bring different teams of our most talented doctors — and most importantly, we needed to preserve the highest quality of life for _you_ before anything or anyone else. Now, the collapsed lung... it was already asphyxiating the fetus as soon as it happened, and the bacteria alone would have made you incredibly sick before they could even get started on surgery."

"No." Prompto can't believe what he's hearing, and he doesn't want her to finish. He can't even _remember_ any trip to the hospital — gods, he didn't even remember that he'd been _pregnant_ — but he certainly remembered his baby. That was the only thing convincing him not to fall asleep, the last good thing in his life he had to hold onto.

A great sadness like Prompto has never experienced is on the horizon; Prompto can see it coming towards him, even though it was still so far away.

"Mr. Argentum," the doctor continues, "You have to understand, it was almost sure that you would not survive any of the surgeries you needed to have done, much less the child, if we didn't do an emergency Caesarean. I'm... _so_ sorry for your loss." Now her voice is struggling to stay even, although it's filled with emotion.

None of this can be true, but the wave is now towering a thousand feet in the air over him. It's going to come crashing down unless Prompto can find an anchor to hold onto.

So he reaches for the only one he knows; the only one he has left to him.

Prompto doesn't look as his hand comes rests on his stomach, but his blood runs cold when he feels air against his raised, cupped palm where his bellybutton should have been. Slowly, he lowers it until it is flat against his navel, his fingers spreading out in straight lines.

His soul feels like it has been ripped apart.

Prompto looks his doctor in her eyes. Her gaze is kind and soft, but it does nothing to save him from the maelstrom of grief that takes him under.

The other shoe has dropped, and Prompto can suddenly remember everything.

He remembers trying to hide his baby from his dad, from Malachi, from Noctis, from the world. He remembers every time he swore that that day would be his last, only to cry into his pillow because he couldn't take his own life; not if it meant stealing everything from this baby who was trying so hard to keep going.

He kept going because the soul growing inside him kept going. And now, that was all over.

 _It hadn't given up. My body gave up on it._ I _gave up on it._

" _No_ ," Prompto repeats, his head shaking from side to side in disbelief. The beeping is picking up again, and so is the rising and falling of his chest. It _hurts,_ and Prompto damns the pain a hundred times over. Every breath was a reminder of what ultimately killed his baby. "Why did they — _Why would they — ?"_ He whispers.

"Mr. Argentum," Dr. Trisitia says slowly, reaching out a hand. "Please remain calm. You're still in critical condition. If you'd like, I can just come ba —"

"No, it's not fair. I-I want my — I want my baby, please, where's my — _why did they take my baby, WHY?!"_ Prompto refuses to hold back in yelling at her now, clutching the bed sheets in a white-knuckled grip even as his body begins to convulse. Every twitch, every hacking cough and breath that doesn't bring in enough oxygen makes his existence a living hell. The only difference is that this time, there's no longer anything in this world that gives him a reason to keep living in it.

Unable to form any more words, Prompto lets himself scream. It's an amalgamation of all the times he _couldn't make a sound,_ not while Malachi terrorized him at school, not while his dad was touching him at night; all the times he wanted to beg them to _stop,_ not for him, but for the tiny little light inside him.

He remembers fearing for his baby's life as he ran through the halls of the school. He remembers running out of time.

And then, there is that nothingness which Prompto wants more than anything to sink back into when he goes to sleep.

" _Mr. Argentum —"_

He doesn't bother to hold himself down anymore. His headache is reaching its peak, he grits his teeth as hard as he can, and he forces himself to sit up so that it will be _worse._ He deliberately takes deep breaths so that he can punish himself for daring to even have lungs that can collapse and murder the only part of himself that was ever worth saving.

The tears now streaming down his face blear his vision and make it hard to see the nurse's face as she back down to the bed. Prompto is sobbing uncontrollably and throwing his arms against the mattress, the side rails, and eventually, his hands have to push and shove against Trisitia's weight on top of him.

He doesn't like the feeling of anyone forcing him down. It has long since associated itself with unwanted touches, violent kisses, and a flare of pain up his spine.

"Get — Get OFF!" He bellows, and though it sets his lungs aflame and makes his stomach lurch nauseatingly, it's more important that he escapes, _now._

Before they can take anything else away from him.

"This is Dr. Trisitia, I need some backup in room 493, I've got a code blue!" She's somehow grabbed her pager in the midst of all the commotion, and now, more people were going to come and make sure Prompto never saw the light of day.

Prompto screams again, but it's interrupted by sobs that rack his body and weaken him. He is very suddenly too spent to do anything but lay there and mourn the death of the love of his life.

" _Why?"_ He asks Trisitia again, but she still doesn't answer. Why did he have to stay trapped in the hospital? Why was he even in here to begin with?

_Why couldn't it have been me?_

Prompto's hands release themselves from against Trisitia's shoulders and instead roam over his stomach. He's _disgusted_ by how thin he is; he can feel the textured, swollen skin of the stiches lining his ribs underneath his hospital shirt, can press his fingers well below his sternum without meeting any rounded resistance. It feels very wrong that he can't feel his child safely tucked away (or as safe as Prompto could make it) inside his womb.

_You're really gone. And it’s all my fault._

Without Prompto realizing it and before he can retaliate, there's suddenly three new pairs of hands holding him down: one for either one of his arms and legs, and they have to nearly lay on top of him to do it. The last set of hands presses hard, _too hard_ , against his chest; the weight is going to kill and crush him.

When Prompto looks up, he sees his dad's face in their body: his age-crinkled eyes set between a strong, wide nose; his lined forehead; his greying beard and thinning, greased hair; the flush of alcohol on his cheeks. But more importantly, Prompto knows those angled eyebrows, the definition in the crease of the lines of his cheeks — his dad is angry, and it could only be because Prompto failed. Failed to keep his home life a secret, and failed to keep his baby alive.

All the hands on him are altogether four pairs too many.

He starts to hyperventilate with the fear that threatens to eat him alive, and the godsdamned machine beeps faster and faster, which only makes him more paranoid. In reality, it's a dead giveaway to his spiraling anxiety attack.

Nurse Trisitia has a bag of clear liquid and a brand new tube and needle in her hand. In record time, she rips everything right out of the packaging and puts them together. An infinite amount of the viscous fluid is suddenly drawn into the needle, but she stops almost instantly with expert precision, even though she's barely watching the whole time. She then brings the needle close to her eyes and gives it one last hawkeyed inspection. After squeezing out some of the contents, she flicks the side of the needle twice for good measure.

Prompto's eyes widen when he realizes what's going on: in order to "calm him down," they were going to put him to sleep.

"I am so sorry,” she whispers again before taking Prompto’s wrist in hand. Her thumb glides over a patch of skin that’s out of the way of the needles already inside him.

"No — _No, don't, please, don't!"_ He's still too afraid to return to where he was before he woke up. Without his baby to guide him, Prompto could be lost forever.

It’s no use. She jams the needle into Prompto’s vein, and it’s all over. Suddenly, his body won’t thrash against the nurses’ forceful grip anymore. Within seconds, everything around him, the pain that was sewed into every part of his body, is already numbing and muffling itself. The world feels very far away, as if he's just detached himself from it.

He hates it. Making himself hurt is the only way he can prove to himself that he’s still alive. Without it, he is as nothing as the void that sweetly calls to him.

“No,” he cries in a voice thick and weak with sleep, his eyelids drooping shut no matter how he hard he fights to keep them open. He can barely remember what he’s crying about. “No, please, _wait..._ Please...”

He falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang son :(


	4. part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!!! i was sitting on this chapter for a while huh..........
> 
> if you're reading this far, thank you! it means the absolute most to me and makes it fun to keep writing.
> 
> okay no more rambling, enjoy the chapter !!!!

Prompto doesn’t know how long he’s been floating in and out of the dark place.

Now and again, he catches snippets of what he thinks are words. They sound more like unearthly whispers and strange, almost syllable-like sounds that don’t make sense when put together, like the _wonking_ noise from cartoons he used to watch as a kid.

Sometimes, these voices are low and quiet rumbles. Other times, they come in the form of hushed shouts, canned laughter, or gentle murmuring.

But every time he strains his ears to listen more closely, the darkness always blocks it out and forces him recede further into it. He's punished with a longer sentence for trying to escape.

When that happens, he dreams that he is locked in a very small cage, immobilized and crouched to the ground with his head sticking out of the bars that his hands are glued to. Something is lurking behind him, a constant threat that his head is going to get bitten clean off his shoulders.

He’s trapped in there for what could be seconds or years: silent, unmoving, and mortally terrified in pitch black darkness.

And then, the beast behind him suddenly stirs.

The darkness fills with the sound of its angry growl, its lips smacking together in anticipation of a meal.

Prompto needs to get out of there. As much as he tries to mask his fear, it only grows as he fights to pull his head inside the slender gap in between bars. His hands are frantically trying to pull the bars apart, but it's no use.

The demon gets closer, and Prompto tries to scream. But there is no one, _nothing,_ inside the void but the idea of his existence; there would be no one to hear him even if his voice wasn't empty.

When he realizes that he can make no noise, the screams turn into silent, pleading sobs.

He is going to die.

Out of the corner of his eye, Prompto can see his downfall; a shifting shadow, darker than the blackness around them. It constantly changes shape, and takes unearthly forms; somehow, not knowing exactly what it was made it even worse.

As it approaches, it seems to fight with itself. It pulls itself apart, then crashes back together and grows tall and long, like something was fighting its way out from its confines; other times, it takes the form of hideous and indescribable creatures with big, soulless eyes.

Prompto can only watch in paralyzed terror as the creature moves with an ungodsly speed right up to his cage, like a predator hunting down its prey.

He makes no sound when it comes near; he doesn't even try to scream. Suddenly, somehow, he has become okay with all this happening. He is no longer afraid of dying.

The creature slows to a stop before him, both dripping with darkness and surrounded by pulsing clouds of it. It's the most terrible thing he has ever known. It has all the features of a human face, but they're all _wrong:_ its mouth has been carved out with a dull knife, the nose is tiny and flat, and the eyes are tiny black windows straight into hell. The face reminds him of both intense green eyes and of a father's twisted definition of love.

It shifts again, one last time.

The face has become a small, frail little girl, no taller than Prompto's thigh. Her tiny hands clasp over Prompto's own as she takes one more step forward, closing the distance between them.

Their eyes meet.

She has eyes as deep purple as the last few moments of a beach sunset, and the shadows have stained her hair an inky black. But as he takes in her face, the soft curve of her cheekbones and her rosy cheeks, he realizes that she looks almost exactly like _him —_ right down to his lopsided smile.

" _Bye,"_ she whispers in a voice sweeter than honey and flowers. She's close enough that he can feel her breath on his face, like a summer breeze. As she leans in to kiss his forehead, the darkness takes her back as quickly as it brought her to him.

When she's gone, light once again illuminates the static inside of his eyelids.

None of this makes sense at first; the only thing he is sure of is that it's too bright again.

He can’t feel anything just yet, either; that part of him still hasn’t come back. Consciousness is an unfamiliar feeling that he has to get used to first. With it, it feels as though his body is offering him a choice at long last:

Open his eyes and live through whatever is waiting for him there... or fall back into the tranquil depths of the darkness that he already knows, and never come back up.

As far as Prompto knows, this is his last shot. For so long, he hasn't had a choice in anything; not in where he went, who he saw, what he did, and even almost in how he would die — almost.

This would be the first time where he gets to decide what is going to happen to him.

It isn't supposed to be this easy. You are either dead, or you are not; hardly anyone is ever forced to subject themselves to purgatory, much less have to decide whether they want to leave. There has to be some sort of catch.

It doesn't really matter, though. Either reality is its own universe; to either know nothing, or to feel nothing.

_Will I forget you?_

He doesn't remember her features anymore; the dream is more of an abstract idea now, but he knows what he saw — _who_ he saw.

The darkness has her now, he knows that. If he goes back, she will not be there.

All he has left of his child now is a memory. That's the only way she survives.

So he opens his eyes, and it feels like waking up from a very deep sleep.

The sight of his bright white hospital room ceiling mockingly greets him again. This time, however, it doesn't set off a jackhammer in the front of his skull; it was more like a banging gavel.

When he breathes, a stich in his chest still makes him recoil, but it's enough so he doesn't have to hyperventilate for air.

Either he's healed freakishly fast or he's been out for a few days.

He tries to think back to the last time he was conscious, or at least to the last memory he had. He gets a flash of a doctor standing at his bedside with a very harsh light in his face, and then... there's this big, huge gap of nothing in his memory.

The last thing he remembers is going to Noctis' house last night; yet again, they had stayed up almost until sunrise playing Call of Duty, and Noctis had actually managed to beat him... with pure luck, of course.

So how the hell did he end up here?

"Mister...?" A little boy's voice calls. His eyes shoot over to the left of him, where the child in question is sitting up in his own hospital bed, dressed from his bald head to his toes in Star Wars pajamas. They stare at each other in absolute confusion while a laugh track plays from the TV. For some reason, the sound is deeply unsettling.

Prompto doesn't know if he can speak; his throat feels as raw as a cat's scratching post. Still, he gives it a try, and dazedly asks: "What's... happening?"

The boy's eyebrows furrow. "What?"

Prompto opens his mouth to repeat himself, but then it occurs to him that he can't remember why he even wanted the answer. So he looks back up at the ceiling and closes his eyes. Keeping track of everything that was going on around and within him is proving to be pretty difficult.

"Um — I'm Louis," he pipes up again, and Prompto can still feel eyes on him. "The nurses keep calling you Mr. Argentum, so that's what I've been calling you, too."

Prompto cracks his eyes open takes in the world again, and then sighs as deeply as possible without it hurting. Slowly, he looks over to the left once more. "My name... is Prompto," he answers, and he's glad that he at least knows _that_ , if nothing else.

"Hi, Prompto! You know, I'm really glad you're awake now. I was like, 'Hang on just a minute! If I'm the kid here, why is this guy sleeping longer than me?!'" Louis erupts in a fit of giggles over his own joke.

They're undeniably contagious, so Prompto shuts his eyes and chuckles through the pain in his throat. "That's funny... Guess I've been asleep for a while, huh?"

"Um, no. It's only been almost a week. I was watching The Big Bang Theory when you woke up."

_A week?_

"Oh. Okay." Already, Prompto has had enough of being awake; he's ready to go back to sleep, but he's just not tired.

"Oh-oh-oh, and you missed your friend, two days ago, too. But I think he didn't wanna come in because I was up; he's kinda shy. He you left some flowers, though!" Louis pointed to Prompto's bedside.

That certainly has Prompto wide awake.

Immediately, he shifts to look at the big bouquet of fresh yellow, pink, and white field flowers and lavender sprigs, complete with a huge chocobo plushie holding a card reading " _Get Choco-better soon!"_ Turning his body _hurts_ , but the way that his heart melts and happily flip flops in his chest does more than make up for it.

Only Noctis would do something this stupid and this endearing. Of all things, Prompto could never forget the huge crush he had on his best friend.

It only makes him feel worse that he can't remember how he landed himself here in the first place. How else is he supposed to punish himself over making Noctis worry so much about him?

"Hey, thanks for telling me," Prompto says, a lovesick smile spreading on his face. "I'll thank him when he gets back."

Louis' smile brightens in response, and he nods big. "Yeah, no problem! Uh — I was gonna ask if maybe... I could get a chocobo, too, like that one? It's really cool, but my mom says I can't have one."

Prompto laughs again, though it sears against his chest. Whoever said that laughter was the best medicine clearly had a vendetta against him. "Y-Yeah, I can ask, it's no biggie. He owes me, anyway."

Louis' eyes light up with curiosity. "Really? What did he do?"

Prompto raises an eyebrow at him devilishly. "He cheated in Call of Duty."

Whenever Prompto isn't being coddled over by nurses, or he's not suddenly overcome with an obscure and great sadness that suddenly and intensely attacks him, he and Louis talk for hours.

Louis' big, brown eyes light up every time he shows Prompto one of his own treasures that have been brought to him during his stay: first, he's more than excited to present Prompto with a shotgun shell from his very first time at the shooting range. Later, he shows off his crow's foot, which is going to help him become a powerful magician.

Prompto hopes that that works out for him. He wants to say, "For your first trick, get out of here."

Every day, Prompto can breathe just a little easier; and yet, Louis' barren scalp doesn't grow any new hair. He's still hooked up to a machine that buzzes and beeps and keeps his skin-and-bones frame alive.

Instead, Prompto just smiles at him. "You're gonna be amazing."

If Louis could just manage to pull through, there'd be no greater magic than that.

Louis' mother comes every day. Often, she's accompanied by a girl even smaller than Louis who sucks on her thumb, a gangly and moody pre-teen boy, and an older man who, without fail, wore a cowboy hat that makes Louis go "Yee haw, partner!" But no matter who may be missing for the day, Louis' mom always comes in the evenings to shower him in affection (even if her son pretends not to love it) until well past visiting hours.

After two days, Louis starts connecting people to the knick-knacks he's so fond of showing Prompto.

He has a cuff link and tie tack from his father, a hawk feather from his mother, an action figure from his brother, a cool pencil from a weird girl — _his sister,_ Prompto puts together when he pictures Louis' family.

These little gifts are what get Louis through the day; since he can't go home with them when they leave, these trinkets are how Louis holds himself over until he gets to see them again.

One late night, after the hospital has surprised its patients with an ice cream night, Louis asks if Prompto could help him stay up until the witching hour so he could see some real witches — so he could practice his magic with them.

Without the heart to explain the "witching hour" to him, they fill the day by watching TV or with Louis telling one of his epic sagas. At night, however, Louis is constantly nodding off without Prompto's quiet urges for him to stay awake.

It's time for Prompto to fill the silence instead.

"Did you know that I used to have a dog named Tiny?"

Louis' sleepy eyes come back to life when he realizes that Prompto is going to tell him a story for a change. He sits up in bed as if he'd never been tired.

"I found her with a really bad cut on her leg, which I bandaged up for her. But it looked like she didn't have anywhere to go, even though she clearly had been around people before, so I decided to take care of her until I could find her owner. And I only had her for one night, but she was _so cute._ I could almost pick her up with one hand, and I think only I was your age. I spent the whole day giving her a bath and feeding her and making sure she was comfortable and happy. And when I went to school the next morning, I ran home as fast as I could so I could feed her on time.

Tiny made me really, really happy, but I knew she missed her family, and her family missed her. I was gonna put up posters that I found her the next day, but when I put her to bed that night, she was gone when I woke up. And gods, I was so worried that she'd run away again, and I was never, ever going to find her. What was even worse is that she was... really my only friend at the time. Even she left, and she's a dog!" Prompto couldn't help but laugh at his own misfortune, and Louis giggles with him as he reaches to hold his pillow close to his chest.

"When I got home from school, though, there was a letter in the mail for me from her owner, and you're _never_ gonna guess who it was."

"Was it the king?!" He shouted excitedly, gripping the ends of the pillow in his tight little fists.

Prompto shakes his head with a knowing smile. "Guess again."

"The police?"

"Nope. It was the _Oracle._ "

Louis gasps loud, and has to use the pillow to muffle himself. His eyes are as wide as saucers, and it only makes Prompto smile wider as he recollects on the fond memory.

"Turns out Tiny's name was actually Pryna, her dog, and Lady Lunafreya was really happy that I found her. Pryna was _supposed_ to go see Prince Noctis, but I guess she got into some trouble on the way. Anyway, Tiny's safe now all the way in Tenebrae. She probably even has, like, monogrammed toys and a personal chef." Prompto adores the sight of Louis' face; he liked to hear stories as much as he loved telling them.

"A _magic dog?!_ How was it going to find the prince? Have you seen her since she left?" Louis asks, and his hand disappears behind the back of the pillow; it was their secret that Louis would pull the feathers out, and then stick them back in later. The bad habit seemed to calm his nerves when he got too excited, so Prompto didn't mind.

"I dunno, Lady Luna never really explained how that part works. You know," he exclaims, now very curious for the answer himself, "neither did Noctis... Oh." Whether or not he wanted to talk about Noctis, it seemed that things always led back to him. Prompto chuckles again and throws his hands up slightly in defeat. "Guess the jig is up. You don't know this either, but... Prince Noctis and I are best friends."

Louis gasps again, louder, and then hand then pulls out a huge fistful of feathers. " _No way._ "

"Yes, way. Pull up a picture of him on your phone, and I promise you that's who you saw in here a couple days ago."

Louis is shaking his head, a refusal of the naivety that came so easily to someone his age. "You're lying!"

"No, seriously! Look, the next time someone visits me, I swear it's gonna be him."

Prompto tries to put as much confidence as he can into the words; but the flowers which still sat on Prompto's bedside look droopier with each passing day that they weren't replaced. As much as Prompto tries to explain it away, Noctis hasn't come back. Worst of all, it might be all Prompto's fault.

When he learned that he could not, in fact, remember anything from the last two years as a consequence of his medically-induced coma, he realized that also meant not knowing what events led to his... being _here_ , bedridden in a hospital. Only the person who found him and saved his life would know that. He didn't know who that was, what that person had done to him, or worse... what might have done to _Noctis_. He didn't know if they were even really friends anymore; all Prompto has are the fond memories of all his days being spent with his other half.

All he knows is that Noctis is the only person who has come to visit him. Not any classmates, family friends, or even his own parents. No one but Noctis cares that he almost died from everything from mortal wounds with every chance of getting infected to major organ failures to both strangulation and drowning.

It's ironic, really, that he decided to tell Tiny's story; he feels as abandoned as he did when he was little.

But Noctis _was_ here a few days ago, and even wrote a note in the get well card he left.

_Be strong_

_\- N_

Yet, midnight has long since passed; Prompto has now been awake for five days, and Noctis still hasn't returned.

Louis, however, is laughing incredulously. "I can't believe it! That's so cool!"

"Yeah... Yeah, it is. In the letter, Lady Luna had also... well, Noctis and I weren't _actually_ friends as kids, but I guess she knew we went to the same school, so she just assumed we already knew each other. She asked me... if I could be patient with him, as a friend. He was growing up, and getting more responsibilities as a prince, so he needed all the friends he could get. So I made it my mission to be friends with him."

Louis listens quietly as Prompto explains how he made his first impression as the "heavy" kid, and then reintroduced himself years later... only for Noctis remember exactly who he was within ten seconds.

From the very beginning, Noctis saw right through him — and Prompto has learned Noctis as well as he knows himself. He only wishes that he could _say_ as much, express it in the form of sweet, loving kisses.

They've known each other for only two years, and Prompto loves Noctis with every bit of his soul.

He doesn't know what happened in the other two years that are missing, but he's one hundred percent sure that he never worked up the courage to tell Noctis as much.

"Wow... So without Tiny, you would've never met Prince Noctis..." He pauses for a while, but Prompto knows he isn't finished. He waits as Louis plucks more feathers from his pillow, and watches them float to the ground.

"Do you believe in angels?"

The question makes Prompto go quiet. He thinks of the sadness that overtakes him at different times of the day, the way his heart beats as though it's trying to fight its way out of his chest, the way that his body, the gods, are punishing him for reasons he can't even begin to fathom.

Whatever he did to deserve _this..._ He must have earned every bit of it.

"Not lately."

Louis stares at him with those child's eyes, and Prompto is immediately filled with regret.

He _is_ being strong for Noctis. Although he can't yet sit up all the way, and telling long stories like these makes his chest flare with the pain that plagues him all his waking hours, the doctors are telling him that with lots of rest, he will get better.

And despite Louis' bedside surrounded by empty bowls of ice cream, and no matter how much rest he gets, he can't just sleep away what he has. Louis _needs_ angels to exist.

The boy looks down at his pillow, and lets a feather drop between his eyes.

"Louis... Are you scared?"

His doe eyes meet Prompto's, and he understands the question. He's so young, but he's experienced more of what life really means than most people five times his age. Of all the people Prompto has ever known, Louis is the only one who has the right not to fear death.

" _Fuck, yeah._ "

Hearing Louis swear makes Prompto wonder how someone so young could be plagued with the same understanding of the universe that compels people to commit sin against the gods, just to get through the day. But before he can forget that Louis is dealing with such a cold and hard truth at the ripe age of nine years old, he whispers, "Please don't tell my dad."

_What else can your dad do to you that's worse than this?_

Prompto looks at him for a moment, filled with empathy — not pity — for the fifty-seven-pound, nine-year-old boy sitting up in the bed across from him, surrounded by feathers.

"I'm fucking _terrified_ ," Prompto agrees, and his eyes are welling with tears.

Silence fills the space between them, but it is not empty or awkward. It's a moment shared between two people who have very different experiences with life; and yet, death is calling to them both, in the same way it has been since the beginning of time. They are no closer to it than someone a million miles away whose time on Earth is just about to come to an end, and no farther than a newborn taking its very first breath.

The two of them are coming to a mutual understanding that they at least are not alone in their struggle — and that makes the idea of death a little less scary.

Louis looks behind him at the digital clock on the wall, and then suddenly groans. "Oh no! We were talking so much, we missed all the witches!"

Prompto follows his eyes, and in fact, the clock reads _4:07._ He wants to laugh at how cruel the world could be; instead, he just wishes that Louis really could have seen a witch.

"They're pretty busy, you know. They have a lot of hexes and stuff to cast, and they don't really like to leave their coven; that's their home."

Louis huffs and gets himself bundled up under his blanket. Even though he sounds pretty disappointed, Louis seems almost glad that he can finally go to sleep. "Yeah, well, when I'm a magician, I'll have even better magic than them. I'll have, like, magic energy beams, and I'll just make my own coven."

Prompto watches Louis as he's nodding off. _Go ahead,_ he wants to say. _If there are no angels to help you, if they're too busy answering prayers from people petitioning for the winning lotto ticket, then you take this world by storm and make it your own._

When Prompto falls asleep that night, it's for another long stretch of time.

He doesn't know why it keeps happening, but that doesn't stop him from sinking farther and farther away from reality. He's at the mercy of the darkness again — and this time, its only goal is to pull Prompto under for good.

_He has to escape._

In his mind's eye, Prompto is swimming as hard as he can against the overpowering waves of black liquid. It sticks to his face and his clothes, and when it floods his mouth, his throat, his lungs, it does not taste like water.

The taste sweet, iron flavor of blood fills his senses. The weight of thousands of gallons of it is crushing and suffocating him.

Prompto can no longer see where he's going; he is relying solely on his instinct to swim _away_ from wherever the waves were pushing him towards.

There's supposed to be a way out. He's escaped the darkness before, but the memory of when or how he did it was just out of reach.

_I need to remember._

Voices start screeching at him from all sides, in a hundred different languages, a thousand different tones, belonging to a million bloodwater creatures.

But they all say the same thing: _remember._

Prompto's eyes shoot open, and light hits his vision all at once. He's panting heavily, and it feels like there's something lodged in his throat that makes it hard to breathe.

The world spins before him, making it hard to place where he is. Worst of all, there's unfamiliar voices shouting out at him, just like in his dream. It only makes the panic worse, but he looks around him anyway in search of another sign of life.

"Hey, can you hear me? Earth to Prompto! Should I call a nurse?"

His vision slows to a stop on Louis kneeling over his bedrail with one hand, and the other cupped around his lips to amplify his voice so he could shout across the room.

Prompto looks over wildly at him as his vision slows to a stop. As quickly as they'd gone, his senses suddenly returned to him — and so did the painful stitch in his chest once he realized he was breathing much too deeply. It makes him cough weakly and nearly turn on his side, but he's able to stop himself before he puts himself in a whole other world of suffering.

"N-No, don't — I'm okay. I'm okay." He feels unbelievably cold, though, and his body shivers violently in an attempt to warm him back up.

"... Are you sure?" Louis asks slowly, his hand already reaching down to press the button.

" _Yes,_ I ju-just need a — need a second —"

But the door has already burst open, and two doctors rush into the room, straight to Prompto's side. With so many things happening around him all at once, his heart rate goes through the roof, and so too does the incessant beeping of his heart monitor.

They both look surprised when Prompto is stares up at them with huge, petrified eyes. "Mr. Argentum, I'm Dr. Caedis, this is Dr. Facio," the doctor on the left introduced, his voice as smooth and deep as dark coffee. "We noticed some abnormal activity in your ECG, is everything alright?"

Prompto swallows thickly and coaches himself through full body shudders to calm down; he's in a hospital, and these are _doctors,_ not flesh-eating monsters.

"Um... Yes. I-I just had a bad dream, that's all. But I'm okay. I have Louis, here, keeping me company, after all." The words come out more warbled than he'd like, but he's able to top it off with a weak smile.

The doctors look at each other, and then back at Prompto. "Well, we would like to at least run a diagnostic," Facio says with a deep voice and hint of a thick West Insomnia accent.

They come closer, but Prompto still feels very uneasy. For some reason, it feels like this has all happened before. "I said I'm fine!"

"Hey, it's alright, we're just gonna do a quick vitals check. Just give us five minutes, we'll be out of your hair."

When Caedis reaches out to press his stethoscope against Prompto's heart, Prompto draws the line.

"No- _Stop!"_ He shouts in spite of the sharp stabs of pain in his chest, resisting against the doctors' hands that are now trying to hold him back down against the bed. This is all so weirdly _familiar,_ and he can't shake the feeling that something is about to go very, very wrong.

"Prompto." Louis cries out, and his voice is almost a whisper. When Prompto looks over, the boy's eyes are filled with tears of fear. He can't shake the feeling that Louis has seen how this scenario plays out. "P-Please let them finish."

Something _is_ wrong, and everyone knows it but him. There's a reason why his anxiety is acting up right now, why he's so afraid of the doctors' white coats and how the fluorescent light is bathing the room in a cold light.

Louis is the only one Prompto can trust to guide him.

Prompto takes a few more shaky breaths, and then silently forces himself to relax in the doctors' hands. He can only hope that these next five minutes pass quickly.

"Thank you. And thank _you._ " Caedis says to Prompto, and then to Louis; it makes Prompto want to sneer at him with disdain. It's not like him to be this spiteful or angry, but the idea of _doctors_ invading his personal space is making him burn and boil.

They listen to his heart, check his breathing, feeding, and IV tubes, and record the numbers on his EKG monitor. It takes closer to two minutes, but when they're finished, they're smiling.

"Well, we've got some good news for you," Dr. Facio announces. "Seems like you've actually been on the mend for a few days now; your lungs are sounding stronger, and your blood pressure is stabilizing. So I _think_..." He flips through his clipboard a few times, doublechecking his reports. "Yeah, I'll give you the green light to start accepting visitors again. But, just a reminder, it may be temporary. If your health starts declining again —"

"Wait, what do you mean? I wasn't — I wasn't accepting visitors?" Prompto interrupts, the fury within him rising.

Facio and Cadeis look at each other again, and Facio's deep voice is much softer this time: "Remember, we informed you that right before you went into a coma, you were in... critical condition. We thought it would be best if we continued to monitor your health just for a little while while you took a some more time to rest."

Prompto looks down at the his feet underneath his crisp white blanket, and his shoulders deflate. It hadn't occurred to him until then how _lonely_ he'd felt the past few days, even with Louis filling all his waking hours with tales of his treasures. He still slept with Noctis' card under his pillow, only because he couldn't yet muster the strength to pull the chocobo close enough (and he hated the idea of anyone else touching it, let alone a nurse). Gods, what he would have done just to see someone he _knows_ — especially Noctis.

But then he thought about all the bruises that littered nearly every visible part of his body, of the way it hurt to talk or to even laugh. Prompto is also very tired all the time, which makes it hard to socialize for longer than an hour. He didn't want Noctis to have to see him like that.

The only thing that matters now is that he _can_ see Noctis again.

"How soon will someone be able to visit me?"

"Well, the hospital will call your emergency contact and then let them know, so you could have a visitor as early as tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow._ Somehow, that is much too long.

He'd waited years just to talk to Noctis; he could wait just a few more hours to see him again. More importantly, he'd have more time to figure out what he was going to even say. _Sorry for ending up in the hospital?_

_And that's if Noctis even shows up._

"Okay. And — ... Thank you." Prompto mutters, meeting their eyes again. Both doctors smile and nod at him, clearly pleased with his change in attitude.

"You're very welcome, Prompto. So I'll just go hand this to the front desk, and then a nurse should check in with you in the next couple of hours." Facio finishes, his honey-brown eyes crinkling with a warm kindness.

It makes Prompto all the more mistrustful.

The doctors leave, and it feels like he's finally able to take the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. However, he still feels the eyes of a scared little boy behind him.

"Hey, man, thanks for your help with the doctors." Prompto says gently as he turns to face Louis. "You made it a lot easier."

But Louis isn't meeting his eyes; instead, he's looking down at the toy car in his hands.

A shadow has cast itself over his features, making him look older and more world-weary than anyone Prompto has ever seen. He remains silent but for his eyes that dart towards his pillow, and the desire to rip out the stuffing is etched in every line of his face.

"Yeah, no problem."

Prompto's brows furrow in confusion. He's never seen his hospital roommate look so distressed, and it's making him nervous. "Louis? Are you alright? I'm really sorry if I scared you, I promise it won't happen again."

When Louis looks back up at him, he looks... guilty. His bottom lip is quivering, his cheeks are bright red, and it's Prompto's turn to be concerned. "I... I need to tell you something, but... I don't want you to be mad at me."

Prompto stares at him for a long while, fear washing over him. _Something_ is _wrong, and Louis knows it._

Just when he thinks he's got a hold on the reality he's living in, it changes again. It's a constant and slow torture; bits and pieces of him, of his memory, are scattered everywhere like needles in the world's biggest haystack, and Prompto has to search for them in the dark. Worst of all, people keep moving and rearranging the needles, and Prompto can't keep track of what was where or what happened when.

"What is it?" He asks quietly, though something's telling him that he's not going to like the answer.

Louis sighs heavily, and still can't even _look at him;_ it was as if they had never debated life and death while waiting for witches only a few hours ago. The toy car rubs against his palm faster and faster, but the nine-year-old keeps his lips sealed.

Leaning in as much as he can without it making him cry out, Prompto lets his soft gaze linger on the top of Louis' bare skull. "Come on, Louis, I could never be mad at you... well, not for long," he jokes.

That doesn't make Louis doesn't laugh; he only bites his bottom lip, afraid to speak.

Prompto wants to continue encouraging him, not because he wants to know more about his past, but because he can't stand the thought that Louis is afraid Prompto will _hate_ him. The universe has made it its mission to take things away from Louis; Prompto wasn't going to add to that, and he regrets that Louis expects the world, expects Prompto, to be so... so cruel.

But then there's a gentle knock on the door, and yet another nurse enters the room.

"Hi, Prompto, I'm Nurse Cyprus. We're all so glad to hear you're feeling better!" She greets, her hands folded over her thighs. She looks absolutely _elated_ , and it deeply unsettles him. There are so many emotions running inside and around him that it's getting hard to keep switching between them. No matter how many doctors and nurses have only good news to share, something about their presence always puts him on edge.

"Yeah," he whispers, turning away from Louis. "Much better."

She nods, and her wide eyes linger on him; she's _waiting_ to say something, and it only makes Prompto all the more uneasy. Too many people that he doesn't know have all of the important information.

And then, because she clearly can't keep it in anymore: "You have a visitor!"

Prompto stares at her blankly, and then in disbelief. " _What?"_

Cyprus pats her thighs excitedly, and even jumps up on the balls of her feet. "There's someone who's been waiting for you since you woke up. And, well, Dr. Facio just granted you visitor privileges, so... Visitor!" She slowly circles her hands around each other through the air, gesturing the progression of the story.

A huge weight has been lifted off of Prompto's shoulders. _Someone remembered I exist._

He can't help but smile back weakly at the nurse. Finally, the gods were showing him the smallest bit of mercy.

But then he remembers the little boy still sitting across from him, on the verge of tears and needing Prompto to listen.

He looks back over at Louis, but he's already grabbed his Gameboy to keep himself distracted. Now, Prompto knows that's hardly an excuse for putting off his and Louis' hard conversation — but in total honesty, he's afraid of it.

Of course he wants to know what happened to him. It feels like with every new memory he makes, there's less space in his brain for all the memories he's lost. He doesn't know if he's even ever going to get all of it back. But that's exactly why he should see his visitor instead; they could tell him more about how he ended up with cracked ribs, a fractured jaw, a concussion, a million bruises, and a collapsed lung — and that's just what the doctors told him about. _Someone_ had wanted to hurt him, maybe even kill him, and he had no clue who it could be.

It feels selfish, but he nods at the nurse. More than anything, he just wants to see a familiar face.

Nurse Cyprus nearly squeals and settles for an excited thumbs up. She's practically bouncing as she moves a chair right next to Prompto, opposite the clunky assortment of IV poles, and then pulls the divider between Louis and Prompto. It occurs to Prompto that Cyprus is methodically and painstakingly wiping off the seat and inspecting the armrests because someone worth the effort is coming to sit there.

There's only one person Prompto knows who makes everyone go above and beyond with such a self-important air.

He hasn't looked in a mirror in ages, but he'd probably scream if he could. Prompto hardly lets himself leave the house if even one hair is out of place; now, he'd be surprised if it wasn't all matted and cobwebbed up there. Although he runs his fingers through as many kinks and smooths out as many strands as he can, the hospital bed pillow has already done its damage to his once perfect 'do. All he can really manage to do is press the button that raises the bed and allows him to sit up with only a little bit of pain in his side, and hope that he looks even remotely presentable.

Just as he's finished straightening the wrinkles on his hospital gown and tucking flyaways behind his ears, the door opens again.

Prompto can _feel_ Noctis before he even sees him; his senses are heightened, taking in more of the prince's scent, the overwhelming feeling of _safety_ at long last.

When the prince of Lucis actually steps into the room, Prompto is hit with an all-consuming passion, a need to have Noctis as close as possible as quickly as possible.

Their eyes meet, and Prompto can only melt in his bed from how awfully hot his face has gotten.

"Hey, Prom," Noctis breathes, and his voice makes Prompto swoon. Since he's known Noctis, he hasn't gone this long without hearing him speak; and yet, he hasn't forgotten the low, scratchy, and perfectly endearing rumble of the way Noctis says his name.

"Hi, Noct," Prompto squeaks, and he can't hold back a watery smile, or stop himself from letting out a breathy chuckle. All he knows is that he's missed his best friend much more than he thought.

Noctis smiles wide back at him, and can't move fast enough to close the fap between them. It feels _right_ ; Prompto isn't filled with a chilling fear as Noctis comes closer, like when a doctor or nurse corners him and fusses over his millions of tubes. Instead, he's longing to wrap himself up in Noctis' arms and never come out.

He stops at the right edge of the bed, and his hand clutches the railing with an iron grip. He is so obviously nervous to be here, and Prompto wishes he could say all the things he's feeling inside to help Noctis feel less out of place. Unfortunately, that's the cardinal sin of having a crush.

"How are you feeling?" Noctis asks softly, and his eyes hold all the tenderness that he's too afraid to show.

It shouldn't have to be such a loaded question. He woke up less than half an hour ago, and yet, he's already experienced enough for the rest of the day. Right now, however, he hasn't felt better than _this_ since he came in. He missed his best friend, the better half of himself. If Louis was sleeping, or talking excitedly with his family, or in the middle of playing his GameBoy, Prompto could do nothing but just _lay there_ and give himself a headache trying to remember what happened to him; all in all, staying in the hospital has proven to be rather lonely.

"I'm... just happy to see you," is the answer Prompto settles for, because it's the truth. If he was feeling his best, he wouldn't be stuck in this hospital bed, that much is obvious to them both.

Noctis' face falls momentarily, but he's quick to mask it with a weak smile. Prompto knows that look on his face; there's more he wants to say, just as Prompto did, but he simply... can't. "I'm happy to see you, too."

Silence falls between them; it's full of so many questions, so many things left unsaid, but neither of them are brave enough to confront those.

"There's a chair for you," Prompto says stupidly, and as he admonishes himself for forgetting that Noctis has his own pair of eyes, the tips of his ears go red. "Um — If you want. I-I don't care where you — I mean — I _do_ care, I just meant if you —"

"Relax, Prom, it's alright." Noctis chuckles, and he slowly makes his way to sit down beside Prompto. They can better see each other now; Prompto feels like he hasn't seen his best friend in years. It's like he's looking at him for the first time: he takes in the soft V of Noctis' jaw, the sharp angle of his dark eyebrows against his intoxicating blue eyes, and most of all, the tenseness in his shoulders that are a telltale sign of that the prince has been under a lot of stress.

If either of them is staring too long, neither of them points it out.

"Sorry, I was, um... Just being stupid." Prompto gives Noctis a sheepish look, and Noctis chuckles. They both know what Noctis wants to say ("You're always being stupid"), but he's somehow able to resist the temptation.

Prompto is grateful for the way that Noctis shrugs it off, and also, he realizes, for all of his support. "I wanted to, um, thank you for... for the flowers, and the chocobo and stuff. That was really nice of you." Prompto feels his heart beating faster at the idea that this isn't Noctis' first time here. Noctis came to see him even when Prompto wasn't awake; _someone_ on this godsdamned earth cared about him.

But that also meant that Noctis saw him in the throes of unconsciousness, when all of his injuries were exponentially worse.

Guilt fills Prompto's heart and makes him look away.

"No big deal. I was gonna bring a real one with me, but everything happened so suddenly, I couldn't get the trainer here fast enough."

Prompto can't help but laugh quietly at that, even through the sinking feeling in his chest. He looks over at the door, and then back down at his fingernails. They've since been peeled as far down the nail bed as possible, so he picks and pulls at the hangnails. The way that his body is reacting to Noctis' presence — his heart skipping beats, his face instantly turning an attractive shade of _very_ bright red... it all makes him extremely nervous that Noctis is going to see right through him. What doesn't make sense is that Prompto isn't _afraid_ of the possibility, not in the way he used to be. "It wouldn't have fit. The door's too small, it'd get stuck and — and then, I'd just have to stare at it."

Noctis chuckles back, and leans forward ever so slightly. Prompto can feel his stare, and it's only making the blonde want to dissolve into thin air.

"Hey, is that the card I wrote you?" His voice is unbelievably soft, even though Prompto's heart is plummeting into his stomach. When he looks down, he sees the dark blue envelope poking out from underneath his pillow.

_The card. It must have fallen out of my pillow when I moved the bed._

Immediately, Prompto scrabbles to snatch the card up and stick it back into its hiding place without Noctis seeing it. "Wh — _No,_ this — It's nothing, I got it from — from someone else —"

"Really? Because it sure does look like the one that I got you. And I don't see it on the table there." Noctis is smiling impishly, and he moves the chocobo plush around in "search" of the card.

"I'm telling you, dude, it's not yours!" Prompto is freaking out; if he didn't already look mortified from the lie plastered all over his face, he certainly does now. To add insult to injury, his sudden, suspicious change in behavior is making it a little too obvious that he's hiding something

"So if you let me see it, then it wouldn't look just like mine? And it wouldn't be my handwriting inside?"

"No, it wouldn't. And I'm not _going_ to show you because that's a violation of my right to privacy."

"A violation, huh?" Noctis' face lights up at the sound of a challenge. He leans forward to reach for the card, and Prompto has to grab his wrist to stop him.

"No! Noct — Noctis, don't you dare — _Stop!_ Stop, or I'm gonna call a nurse!" Noctis is repeatedly reaching for underneath the pillow, even though Prompto is swatting his hands away every time. They're both giggling because Noctis is incredibly stubborn, and at this point, there's no use in trying to hide the truth. He missed being with Noctis like _this_ ; they could ignore the fact that Prompto is currently very much bedridden, and just be goofy teenagers.

But suddenly, things aren't making sense again; a deep set fear of someone _seeing them together_ has overcome him. Prompto has forgotten something important, he knows it, but he can't care about that now:

Prompto miscalculated the angle of Noctis' hand, Noctis is now holding the card. The prince's face freezes when he realizes that it is, in fact, the one he wrote.

Prompto freezes too, because he is almost sure that Noctis is decidedly _not_ pleased that Prompto sleeps with the memory of him right at his head.

"I-I'm sorry," Prompto squeaks out almost immediately. "I know it's, like, _really_ weird, it just felt like — like it was helping, or something — Look, I'll just put it back, a-and we can forget that this — and — and —" He reaches for the card to take it out of Noctis' hands, but Noctis isn't letting go.

As soon as their eyes meet, everything in Prompto stops and is replaced by burning passion and deep desire.

Noctis has caught his eyes in a heated gaze, and Prompto can't make out his expression. He hasn't ever seen _this_ look on Noctis' face before; however, that doesn't make it any less potent in its ability to reduce Prompto to cinders.

"You kept this?" Noctis' leans in as he speaks, keeping his voice quiet and making Prompto grip his sheets in his attempt to keep all his feelings contained.

But how can he, when Noctis is asking him to put his heart on his sleeve?

Prompto nods, and despite all the reasons he told himself — that it was just because he couldn't grab the chocobo plush, or it was simply because the card is small, flat, and easy to keep under his pillow — he knew exactly why he couldn't and _wouldn't_ , separate himself from it: "You wrote it."

Noctis stares at him for a while longer, and his gaze has never been so gentle. Slowly, he leans in closer, until there's only the space of a few inches between them.

Prompto can barely breathe. His heart monitor is beeping rapidly and ceaselessly.

Noctis looks up at the noisy machine as a confirmation of the wildfire that blazed in Prompto's chest; but for that brief second without absolutely all of Noctis' attention, he feels colder than ice.

When the alpha looks down again, Prompto surges back to life with feeling. More than anything, he wants Noctis to lean in, cup the back of his head, and —

Noctis kisses him softly, and Prompto realizes that he hasn't forgotten _this_ ; the feeling of Noctis' lips slowly rising and falling against his own, over and over, neither of them able to get enough of each other. A force of nature is keeping them wired together, searing the taste of _Noctis_ on his tongue.

It's replaced by the taste of blood. All at once, he's reminded of many things.

He remembers blood on his lips from when his dad _broke_ him, body, mind, and soul, in order to reach his own selfish pleasure, and then make Prompto swallow the culmination; from having his head shoved into a wall by Malachi, and then into rock hard porcelain. It was the last thing he tasted when he was all but forced to inhale the water that froze his lungs.

Blood had also filled his mouth right before he woke up; it flowed in and out of him like the water that choked him when he died. It helped him _remember_ after all.

A little girl with violet eyes and vantablack hair strikes the vision of his mind's eye; just as blood moved through him, that darkness which Prompto feared more than anything sifted and shifted through and around her.

Two years' worth of memories that were lost to him suddenly return.

It's a funny feeling; all the things that he couldn't recall ten minutes ago were now as vivid in his memory as if they'd happened yesterday. He could almost feel his brain placing things in the right order: falling in love with Noctis, his dad's promotion, meeting Malachi, breaking up with Noctis... and then, the beginning of the end. It was a strange phenomenon, when he thought about his time here at the hospital, and the moments that he was filled with an inexplicable depression; he simply assumed it was a side effect of all his painkillers, and not the memories he'd lost. After all, all the new memories he'd made at the hospital so far were contingent on the fact that he couldn't remember much about himself at all.

The doctors used that against him. No one told him that the collapsed lung had killed his baby. No one even told him that he had been pregnant.

What was possibly worse is the memory that no matter what, Malachi would have killed it, anyway. They were bonded now, and Prompto was not carrying his child.

After the bathroom, before the hospital, he'd had one golden opportunity to escape from Malachi while he still had his baby girl. But Malachi is gone, and now, so is she.

Before he can do anything to help it, Prompto starts to cry.

He let the doctors take his baby, and then they'd nearly stolen the memory of her, too. The worst thing is that he had been powerless to prevent either.

"Prom? Are you okay?" Noctis pulls away when the tears start streaming down Prompto's face. It's hard for Prompto to look at him, though; every time he does, he's haunted with the sight of her, and it just... hurts too much.

Prompto's silent tears are turning into quiet sobs; with all the memories come all of the emotions, and despite the fact that he's been on the mend, the feelings are still much too raw.

"Heyheyhey, it's alright, I'm here," Noctis whispers as he pulls Prompto into him as much as possible without making Prompto's body twist or lean over too much. The blonde wants more than anything to raise his fists to Noct's chest and cry until he has nothing left in him — but he can't. If Noctis knew what he'd done, the secrets he was keeping...

There are so many things he wants to ask Noctis. At the forefront of all those is the one that makes him raise his hands to hide his face as the weeping overtakes him, but he asks it anyway:

" _Why did you save me?"_

He can't see Noctis, but Prompto knows that if he could, he'd feel even worse. _Yes,_ he almost wishes that Noctis had just left him there; he would never have to go through all this. Even if Prompto would be leaving him very much alone in this world, Noctis is a prince. Whether or not he had Noctis' bastard child, they were never going to last forever.

"What?" Noctis pulls away again, but this time so he can look down at Prompto, bewildered. "Prom, I — I thought you — The doctors told me you forgot — ..."

Prompto knows what Noctis wants to say: that he forgot how madly in love they were, how Malachi had brought that to an abrupt end. Noctis thought that Prompto had forgotten anything that had happened between them over the last two years, which was basically _everything._

He shakes his head as it comes to rest against Noctis' shoulder. Gods, he hates and is disgusted by himself for even daring to _touch_ Noctis with the blood and guilt that was on his hands, especially when he's bonded to another alpha... but he's suddenly become extremely weary from remembering all the events, all the emotions he'd felt over the last two years — and especially over the last two weeks.

Prompto wondered if the doctors told Noctis _why_ he forgot so much: they forced him into a coma, and when he woke up, he couldn't remember anything anymore.

Did they tell him that Prompto was pregnant? Did they tell him what they did to his baby?

Their _baby,_ Prompto realizes. _She had hair as black and dark as Noctis', where his dad was a brunette and Malachi a redhead; and, most of all, her eyes were the spitting image of her father's._

Is Prompto any better than the doctors for hiding that from him for _four months_? Would Prompto still be sat in this hospital bed if he'd been honest with Noctis from the day he knew there was another life inside of him?

 _Who knows?_ Prompto kept the secret for so long because he was protecting both Noctis and the baby. Things could have worked out beautifully so that he and Noctis had a fairy tale happy ending. It could have also worked out just as easily if not more so, for the Lucian government to simply neutralize a threat to the Lucian throne and bloodline.

However, it could have _also_ worked out that Noctis was not the father. He didn't want to think about what that would have meant.

But now there's no point in hiding anything. The baby is gone.

"Noctis... There's — There's something I — I need to tell you." Prompto has heard those words before; ten minutes ago, when Louis looked at him like a man who'd looked death in the face.

_Louis knew. He heard when they told me that I lost my baby and then put me into a coma, and he never told me._

For Prompto to be upset would be incredibly hypocritical now. Prompto also understands _why_ Louis said nothing: just as the nine-year-old was afraid Prompto would hate him for keeping secrets, Prompto is deathly afraid that he's about to lose Noctis forever.

"Go ahead," Noctis whispers, holding the back of Prompto's head. Noctis is pressing small, sweet kisses against his cheeks in the way that he knows Prompto adores, in the way that calms him down. Instead, it's only making him more nervous because he's never going to get them again.

Prompto takes a deep breath, and holds nothing but contempt for the flare of pain in his chest. _No one_ took _her from me. I killed her myself long before anyone ever got to her._

Maybe that was for the best; he didn't want her to experience the world if _this_ was all it had to offer.

"Four months ago... You and I were still together. And I... I got..."

It's hard to speak because he's afraid of things becoming too... real. He has to admit that he lied to Noctis, when Noctis trusted him more than anyone else. He has to admit that she's not coming back. He has to admit that at this point, there is no going back to how things used to be, no matter how much either of them wanted it.

"I was pregnant."

Noctis freezes, and the kisses stop. Without them, Prompto is a mess of anxiety.

But he has to keep going. He _owes_ Noctis an explanation.

"No one knew. And I-I didn't... I didn't know what to _do_... It could have been yours, or — or Malachi's, or — or —"

Prompto realizes that he is faced with yet another hurdle. His body was already reacting to the thought of _him_ ; and he scared Prompto more than Noctis or even Malachi ever could. In fact, Malachi was sometimes like practice for when Prompto came home and had to be absolutely perfect: otherwise, any and every mistake would be swiftly and cruelly punished.

His dad had all the control over him: when and what he ate, where he was, when he would be silent, when he would _scream_ _for mercy._ More than anything, his dad's golden rule is to do _exactly_ as he is told, and not a toe out of line.

Otherwise, they'd go upstairs, and Prompto would be punished.

" _Or?"_ Noctis asks, his voice choked and strained with all the emotion, good or bad, that Prompto knows he's holding back.

Prompto moves his face away from Noctis. The idea that anyone, let alone his own dad, has been with him in ways that only Noctis was ever supposed to, the unspeakable things that happened between them... It makes him _sick_. He didn't deserve to have Noctis come here despite having a schedule that would probably make Prompto's head spin, just to find out that he was kissing Prompto's tainted, dirty lips and cheeks.

He starts to hyperventilate with all the fear coursing through his blood right now. The memory of his dad raises a million other questions: _Does he know I'm here? If not, where does he think I am? Is he looking for me? Should I go back home?_

_Should I tell Noctis?_

That would certainly make it difficult to go home. Exposing his dad would mean a lot of police, a lot of questions, and... if they couldn't put together enough evidence, or if his dad convinced everyone that Prompto was just some clinically insane and _adopted_ brat who makes wild accusations for no reason...

At the end of it all, Prompto would still pay the price.

"Prompto. Who else?" The prince repeats, and Prompto can hear the quiet anger in his tone. He can't help but feel as though he's earned it; he deserves Noctis being upset with him, he deserves to never see Noctis again.

" _My dad,"_ Prompto whispers, because he deserves to lose Noctis, and to die again at his father's hands once everything was over.

" _What?"_ Noctis immediately exclaims, his hands momentarily pulling themselves away from around Prompto's shoulders. The sharpness in Noctis' tone makes Prompto jump, and he can only convince himself of one thing:

_Noctis hates me._

"I-I'm _sorry,_ " Prompto sobs. As he turns away from Noctis to completely hide himself away, his palms dig into his eyes so that he'll stop _crying;_ but he's so afraid and lonely that this is the only way he can cope.

And gods, the gasps he has to breathe in quickly are making his throat, his chest, his head, ache with dull pain. He didn't think he'd ever be rid of these constant reminders of his failures.

His fingers reach up to grab his front hairs at the root; he needs another anchor to keep him afloat before the great wave of sadness smashes into and decimates him one last time. _He doesn't have his baby to do that for him anymore._

"Prompto — hey, hold on, it's okay, it's _okay,_ " Noctis' voice starts out sharp and furious, and then dissipates into something softer and kinder. Prompto feels Noctis' fingers gingerly rest on his arm, but Prompto shrugs him off.

" _No,"_ Prompto wails, and despite the pain in his chest, Prompto turns to his side. He's still convinced that he has to make himself _hurt_ for what he did to his baby, to _Noctis_. When he shifts onto the side with the broken ribs and collapsed lung, every fiber of his body protests; and yet, even through his coughing and sharp, pained breaths, he manages to settle into the position.

It's torture.

His heartbeat matches the pulses of pain that make Prompto shrink up on himself while simultaneously making the problem worse. Every breath is like inhaling fire. It's nothing in comparison to the shame and guilt of losing his best friend.

"Please, Prom, just listen to me. I'm here for you," Noctis gets out of the chair and his hand heavily sinks into the mattress behind Prompto. He's not planning on going anywhere, but he won't come any closer if Prompto doesn't want him to.

Once upon a time, those words would have filled Prompto with a warmth that spread down to his fingertips; they would have made him giddy and lovesick and all the things that showed how much he loved Noctis for being his rock.

Now, they make him want to throw up. Noctis wouldn't love him if he knew the truth, and it would make this whole thing easier for both of them. If he wasn't willing to leave after finding out that Prompto has been _contaminated, spoiled, defiled_ — well, Prompto would fix that.

" _Mala — Malachi bonded me,"_ Prompto heaves, and just speaking severely exhausts him. Sleep is calling to him once more, though its voice is just a quiet whisper; he needs to tell Noctis the truth, the full truth, before that happens. "In the bathroom. Right before he —"

Right before he sent Prompto into that familiar nothingness which he wants nothing more than to fall back into for good this time. There's nothing left for him here.

Noctis' hand remains still. Then it slips away.

_You've finally done it. You pushed Noctis away, and now you have nothing and no one._

Prompto's eyes close. The wave has become a tsunami, and it was going to claim anyone in its path — and it's headed straight for Prompto. When it hits, it will put him to sleep, and that would finally be the end.

Suddenly, Noctis' weight is on the bed beside him.

Prompto doesn't have the strength to turn around, but that doesn't seem to stop Noctis. He curls his arms around Prompto's waist and presses his lips at the bottom of his neck, between his shoulder blade; right over his mark.

Something else tendrils through Prompto's weary heart, and sends him into full-body relaxation.

His body sinks back against Noctis' as the prince kisses his mark over and over and over, until Prompto is no longer shaking and coughing, and his tears begin to dry. It feels wrong to feel this good, this _calm_. The storm that was just moments from washing Prompto away just... disappeared.

"I love you," Noctis whispers. "Nothing is ever gonna change that."

Prompto feels like he's been tranquilized by Noctis' kisses, or that he's been wrapped up in Noctis' alpha scent. He can barely remember that same aroma, uniquely Malachi's and dipped in caustic hatred, the way it assaulted Prompto's senses as he drowned.

"Noctis..." Prompto whispers back, still unable to face him.

"I love you," he repeats. "More than anything. _Please_ , Prom..." Noctis was asking him to lower his guard; to _trust_ that Noctis isn't here to hurt him, like so many people have done before.

How can he continue to fear Noctis' wrath when Noctis is making him feel safer than he's ever felt in his entire life?

Slowly, Prompto relieves his weak lung of the crushing pressure laying on top of it. His breath is rattling as the pain blessedly dies down.

It comes to a screeching halt as he opens his eyes to see Noctis leaning over him, and suddenly he's captivated by the sight of Noctis' deep blue eyes, lined with lack of sleep; his smooth, moon-pale skin; and the unruly spikes of his raven hair.

All Prompto can manage to say as one hand raises itself to cup Noctis' cheek, his thumb rubbing the skin just above his defined cheekbones is a soft, "She had your eyes."

The understanding passes between them that Prompto _saw_ her in the depths of unconsciousness, and the prince smiles sadly and weakly.

He understands that she is gone.

Noctis lowers his forehead to Prompto's, and they breathe together, slowly. It's a moment of silence for the future that they could have had together. For the little girl who could have been running around underfoot, or maybe a strong, silent type, or possessing all the makings of a great leader, just like her father.

No matter what she could have been, she is nothing now.

Prompto coaxes Noctis to come closer, for Noctis to take on some of the burden that is threatening to crush Prompto's shoulders. Noctis obeys, and their lips are meeting again in a silent, tender exchange.

Prompto has one last memory return to him. Flashes of a bright white classroom enter his vision, but so, too, does a mortal terror. In the moment, he couldn't remember why he was so scared and _cold_ , but he knew that whatever it was was coming for him... and Noctis.

There was a moment of clarity where Prompto could only focus on the thing that pulled him out of his purgatory: _Noctis said he loves me._

Kissing Noctis was the only way to save him, if there was a danger to fear. If Prompto didn't, then Noctis would run headlong into battle, and he might not survive.

Prompto kisses Noctis now with the same desperation that he did then: it's their silent way for Prompto to say to Noctis, _please don't leave me._

Every time their lips meet, Noctis promises, _never._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: louis is definitely the kid from "the crickets have arthritis" by shane koyczan. it's a beautiful spoken word poem, give it a listen!!!
> 
> again, thank you for reading. this was my favorite fic to write, like, ever (read: most of this fic was written between the hours of 12-4 am)!!
> 
> hopefully i'll find the inspiration for a chpt 5, but if not, let's see what i can come up with in the future! until then <3

**Author's Note:**

> see, i told you to read the tags


End file.
